


Back in the Saddle

by titC



Series: A Hole in the Head [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fair, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Road Trip, cameos by other characters, farms and ranches, rodeo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: How did Matt get back on his feet after surgery? The answer involves a road trip, motels, horses, ranches, punching nazis, and more!
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Series: A Hole in the Head [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715212
Comments: 22
Kudos: 69
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fratt Week, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	Back in the Saddle

**Author's Note:**

> For my Marvel Fluff Bingo prompt _mistaken for a couple_ and my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _worked themselves to exhaustion_ , as well as for FrattWeek 2's prompt _Date_.
> 
> Big thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/) for the beta ♥  
> Follows [a Whumptober fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21015002), which you can of course read first... but if you don't, there's a quick what-you-need-to-know recap in the end notes.

Red hadn’t remained in the hospital for very long, at last not very long in Frank’s opinion; then again, Red wasn’t the kind to take kindly to long hospital stays, and Frank could relate. So he asked Nelson to bring some clothes, helped Red into the wheelchair because if the nurse tried it Murdock would throw a fit and maybe a (weak) punch, and off they went to Hell’s Kitchen.

Nelson had tried to get his buddy to either stay with him and his girlfriend in their fancy apartment with an elevator, or to go to the Nelson shop where there would only be one flight of stairs to deal with before the living floor; the Sister had offered the orphanage, too. Of course Red had refused. He wanted to be _home_ , and above all _away_ from all of them. Turned out he actually had backup quarters under a fucking church, because _Red_ , but he didn’t want anything to do with god at the moment and he still hadn’t gotten over Nelson signing him over to a surgery he’d never have accepted, had he been conscious. So: no church basement (a fucking _crypt_ , really, Murdock?), no homey mom-and-pop shop, no bosom college friends with the means and patience to put up with him.

No. Somehow, the one person he could tolerate was Frank.

Frank wasn’t sure _he_ could tolerate Red when he was so fucking stubborn about everything, but Frank still wasn’t about to let the idiot kill himself trying to get up the stairs all on his lonesome; so once the taxi had dropped them and he’d watched Murdock cling to the handrail and pretend he was making progress for a few minutes, he stepped in and cleared his throat.

“You done?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m taking you up.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wasn’t asking.”

Frank hated seeing him like this. So he caught him around the middle, remembered the doc had told Red to avoid putting his head down, and changed track. No fireman’s carry for now. “Stop it,” he said when a foot almost caught him in the shin and he had to let Murdock slide down to sit on the stairs. “Piggy-back, okay?”

“No.”

“Look, I said I’d get you home and I will, alright?”

How could a grown man pout so hard? “I’m not an invalid.”

“You still have stitches in your head, Red. You’re not at peak level; there’s no shame in that. You got to heal first.” And stop being such an asshole, because Frank had promised Karen he’d make sure Murdock got home but he _hadn’t_ promised anything about staying after that, even if she’d asked and stared into his eyes as hard as she could.

“Weak,” Red mumbled. “Too fucking weak, Matty. Get up.” And he pushed against the stair he was on but only managed to pitch forward into Frank’s arms. Frank wasn’t sure he’d meant to be heard, his voice was so low; it sounded like a shitty kind of pep talk he’d gotten from a drill sergeant – well, a trainer. Coach? Something like that.

“For the last time, Red.”

And finally, the stubborn asshole let Frank carry him up. He felt lighter than expected, although he was still heavy; he’d shrunk a bit during his time at the hospital but he was still mostly bone and muscle, if less muscle than usual. Frank felt his own thighs burn, but he was pretty sure Red’s thighs and his arms were shaking by the time they reached the top floor and Red wobbled his way to his own door, one hand on the wall and Frank hovering behind him.

“You hungry?” Frank asked. He watched Murdock totter to his couch and execute a badly controlled fall on it before turning to poke at the kitchen cupboards. “There’s not much in there.”

“Beer in the fridge.”

“I’m talking food. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to have beer.”

Red shrugged.

“I’m going to the store. Don’t try anything.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be back.”

“You don’t have to come back.” His mouth said one thing, his face said another.

“Your friends don’t want your sorry ass to starve to death here.”

“We’re friends now?”

 _Jesus,_ did everything have to be so hard with him? “You don’t want to talk to anyone else.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Red’s hand made a sloppy circle in the air. “You don’t want to be here.”

“I sure do have other shit to do than being your baby-sitter.”

“What kind of shit, killing people?”

Frank rolled his eyes; if he believed in god, he’d pray for patience. “Right, killing people.”

“Oh.” Red frowned a bit. “So while you’re here, you’re not killing people?”

“Right. There you go.”

A self-satisfied smile appeared on Murdock’s face. “I’m going to need help for a while, I think.”

Frank gritted his teeth and vowed to make him pay as soon as he was back on his feet, as soon as he stopped looking so small. For now, Frank would do whatever worked to get him to accept some help and not have Karen do the stare again, but it sure cost him, and it _would_ cost her. One day.

As he left Murdock, he saw an empty apartment two doors down; the lock was broken and he peered in. “Previous tenant died in his sleep,” an old lady told him. “EMTs broke the door down, but it was too late. Landlord still hasn't fixed the lock, so no one wants to rent it.”

They’d get squatters soon if nothing was done, but it wasn’t his problem. He’d just go get some ramen and pasta for Red and leave.

Murdock was, of course, terrible at staying put. Frank had first planned to come check on him every couple of days, maybe stock up his fridge and make sure he hadn't fallen and cracked his head (again) in the shower or something. It didn’t work out that way.

The first time he dropped by he found Red laid out on his floor, his chest bare and sweaty. Frank forced his eyes up to Red’s face.

“The hell?”

“Working out,” Murdock (thought he) explained. Then he got to his feet, hopped from foot to foot, raised his fists, and added: “Wanna spar?”

Jesus fuck. “This how you rest?”

“I’m done resting.”

Frank entertained for a minute the idea of tying the idiot to his bed. “You’re going to injure yourself.”

“You scared?” He jabbed at the air in front of him, but all Frank could see was the scars on his skin, the ribs showing where they shouldn’t.

“Your arms look like cooked spaghetti; you’re not going to hit anything. You’re a stick, Red.”

“A stick? Stick wouldn’t let… this,” he said with a wave at his head, “stop him. He cut off his own hand to escape the Hand once, and then he still fought them with his katana. He’d tell me to…”

“ _What?_ ” Did his tumor come back? Sticks and hands, Frank couldn't make heads or tails of it; it wasn’t making sense. “Just… stand down, yeah?”

But Red was growing more agitated; his head was twitching like a bird’s and Frank could see the hair stand up on his arms. Something was wrong. “Keep alert,” he mumbled, “zanshin, zanshin, _zanshin!_ ”

Whatever. “I’m not sparring. Put your shirt back on.” Frank threw the hoodie that had been lying on the armchair in Red’s face, who fumbled it before finally catching it. “It’s cold.”

“I’m not cold,” he grumbled, but he still put it on with a mulish expression.

“Now, why do you need to get back in shape yesterday?”

“Been away too long; even before the hospital, I wasn’t… I wasn’t doing my job.”

“I’m sure Nelson would agree.”

“Not talking about that job.”

No shit. “If you go out before you’re ready, you’ll just get killed.”

“Then I just have to be ready.”

Frank looked up, briefly. Maria had used to say he was stubborn, but Red? He was in a whole other category. “Did you listen to what the docs said?”

“My hearing’s pretty good.”

“I didn’t ask if you heard.”

“I can’t – last night, Javier’s bodega was broken into and I was stuck here and… I got up but I got dizzy and _I heard him_ , Frank! I was lying here trying not to throw up and I listened, I listened all night long; the Kitchen needs me!”

He… tried to go out. With a hole in his head and his arms like noodles. Frank sighed. “You can call the cops.” He was a lawyer; he had to know some, right?

“Yeah, sure. _Hi, I heard a robbery going wrong two blocks from me._ That’ll go over well.”

And he wasn’t going to call his other vigilante buddies, of course. Not while he was still so angry at everyone. “Then you tell me, and I’ll go.”

“Frank…”

“Just sit the fuck down and tell me what I need to know.”

He’d done a serious number on the lowlifes around his own apartment in Queens; he could take some time off to take care of Hell’s Kitchen for a while. Even if he had to do it without killing too many people, because of course altar boy would make a fuss about that. But Frank remembered seeing him all pale and small in the hospital bed; he remembered him wiping his face when he thought no one was looking. He remembered his ramblings about god abandoning him, about – yeah. He was going to do it.

Everything he had that wasn’t in his weapons caches could fit in a duffel, and there was still the empty apartment on the same floor. He’d take his stuff, move some of his guns there, and camp in the dead guy’s place. It would be as good a base to clean the Kitchen from as any.

So Frank brought his things to the apartment, fixed its lock, and filled the days between checking Murdock wasn’t trying new ways to kill himself hobbling down to the street (“You won’t make it back up, Red, even if you do make it down”), attempting handstands in the stairs (“I’m working on balance, Frank!”), and other stupid shit; and getting to know the neighborhood. He also started doing odd jobs around the building; a guy on the floor below learned about the lock and asked if Frank could also fix his, then if he knew anything about plumbing, and then word spread. Turned out Red was a bit of a local hero as a lawyer, too; he’d helped some folks out of some bad places. Frank tried to keep a straight face when they said that the poor attorney had been attacked in his own home a few times, and wasn’t that a shame? And a blind man, too! Criminals, they said, had no respect for anything.

Well, that was why he’d moved there: to tell Karen that yes, Murdock was still alive _and_ to take down the local scum. Frank was efficient. He’d rather focus on the scum, but at least Red could give him tips: where to go, who to hit. It worked, sort of, and Red didn’t try to go out again. He got a bit less pale, the stitches were removed, he started doing some yoga shit that looked safe enough. Frank left him to it.

After a week or so of this, Murdock finally deigned to speak with Nelson again. They spoke on the phone, he said, and Murdock would start working from home. He’d gotten strong enough now to navigate the steps up and down on his own, even if slowly; so he said he might go to their office a few days a week to meet some clients.

Frank was seeing a way out of his current situation in the near future. This wasn’t his place; the Kitchen was Red’s and Frank should get back to his regular life. Fixing Mrs. Lin’s bookshelves and shooting some kneecaps wasn’t why he was still alive, in spite of all the shit that had tried and failed to kill him. They called him the Punisher, not Mr. Nice. So he started packing again after almost two weeks there, and prepared for his last night out on the streets of the Kitchen.

Except when he went to Red’s apartment to ask if he’d heard anything in particular Frank should investigate, he found him tying some fucking ropes around his hands.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m doing exactly what you think I’m doing.” Frank didn’t say anything; he was pretty sure that, blind or not, Red could sense his opinion. “I’m not going to go out for long; just a little round to remind people I’m still here. If I find trouble, I’ll be there; if I don’t, then I won’t go looking for it.”

As if. But Murdock was old enough to make his own choices, and Frank wouldn’t be the one to stop him. “Fine.”

He watched him go up to the roof access door and went to finish his packing. He kept an ear out but, of course, he didn’t hear anything; Red was silent unless he wanted you to hear him, and the only way to know if… _when_ he was back, was checking his apartment.

Frank decided he wasn’t Red’s mother and that it would wait until the morning, just before he left for good.

Red had come back, but he looked like he had right after the hospital: pale and shaky and furious. He was still wearing his black outfit, although he’d taken off the boots and ropes. The mask was pushed up on his forehead and he was lying on the floor, his back to the sofa.

“Too soon?” he said.

“I was fine; I was _ready_.”

“But?”

Red scowled. “Hit my head. A guy had this bat; I should have heard it coming but a cat screeched and I was distracted and I…” He rubbed his forehead. “I got him in the end, but my focus is shot. Why? I’ve been meditating, and I’ve worked out, and – what if it doesn't come back?”

“Give it time.”

“I don’t have time.” He sat up and turned his face in Frank’s direction. “The people here, they can’t wait that long! I know you’ve been helping out, but you’re leaving. I have to be ready.”

“How do you know I’m leaving?”

“I’ve heard you packing.”

Freaky ears. “Can’t your buddies help? The angry chick and the skinny guy, they’re your friends, right?”

“Ha. I don’t think Jess would say that. They’ve got their own shit to deal with; I can’t always ask people to do my job.”

“Not your job.” But it was, really; Frank got it. He disapproved of the way Red went about it, but he got it. Knowing you could get rid – depending on your definition of _getting rid_ – of assholes that were destroying lives, families, and not doing anything? It wasn’t in either of them. They could do something, and therefore they did something. They had to. He wasn’t going to say it out loud though; Red would have a fit over how different they were and how _he_ didn’t kill and wouldn't Frank consider doing the same, maybe say a few Hail Marys and repent and… nah.

Murdock shook his head before hiding it between his pulled-up knees. “I’m just not good enough. I have to work harder, that’s all. I’ve been slacking.”

Jesus, Catholic school had done a number on him, yeah? But it didn’t have to be Frank’s problem. He’d done what he’d promised to do, but he didn’t need to stay any longer. Karen, Nelson, the nun… Red was talking to them, now. He was still pissed, but Frank wasn’t the only person he talked to anymore, and this… wasn’t his fight.

“Okay,” he said. “You do that. See you around, Red.”

Frank left before he changed his mind. He worked better alone anyway.

It lasted for a couple of weeks. He started making plans for a little trip away from New York; he was thinking of hitting a bunch of racist assholes that made money in the worst ways and had cells in a few places all over the northeast. David had given him tips, and Frank studied maps and stopped shaving. Better hide his mug, yeah; he didn’t want word to get out that Frank Castle was out and about away from the city. And Frank Castle's face had made headlines a couple times.

Then, one morning, as he was cleaning a long-range rifle, there was a knock on his door. A knock. Who knocked, around here?

“Frank, open up!”

Shit. Karen. “Hi,” he said after opening his door. He didn’t let her in; he was pretty sure she was bringing trouble. And that he’d go along with whatever she was going to ask, yeah, but better not make it too easy.

She looked at him, narrowed her eyes, and pushed past Frank. “It’s Matt.”

“Got himself into trouble?” Eh. Frank shrugged; wasn’t his problem. Maybe he’d overestimated his strength, maybe he’d had a bad fall, maybe he’d got beaten up by some asshole. But it wasn’t Frank’s problem, anyway.

“Yes. No, well, not exactly.” She tucked some hair behind one ear and went on. “He’s trying too hard. He’s not listening to anyone: not Foggy, not me, not Maggie… He refuses to take a break, and it’s killing him.”

“What’s he doing?” Not that he wanted to know.

“We’ve tried to sic Jessica on him but he heard her, of course. But from what we could gather…” She shook her head and a strand of hair fell on her face; she blew it away. “He comes to work on time and doesn’t leave early; he often disappears for lunchtime but we think he’s going to the old gym to train; his hair is often still damp when he gets back, as if he’s just showered. Then at night, he does his thing; there are reports of him at all hours. It’s like he never sleeps, and I’m not sure he eats. He’s lost weight again. Foggy’s mother tried to get him to eat but it didn’t work. He…”

“I get the picture.” Red was being an idiot, was all. Nothing new here. “Why did you come here?”

“He listens to you.”

“He doesn’t listen to anyone.”

“Please.” Shit, she was doing the eyes at him. “He will only say the city needs him, that he can’t let people down, that he can’t stop. I think…” She looked away. “I think he’s trying to kill himself; it’s like he’s daring fate to kill him.”

Frank doubted it. At least, he doubted it was _fate_ that Red was trying to provoke. “What do you want me to do, sit on him?”

“Can’t you try, at least?”

“Why should I care?” It was, Frank felt, a valid question, and it was only because Karen looked so disappointed that he said, “Fine. I’ll talk to him.” But _not_ because he worried.

* * *

Matt rested his forehead against the truck window. It was cold enough outside that Frank refused to let him open it, even just a little, so the world was muted. Muffled. The sounds, the smells… he couldn't tell where they were. Well, he probably wouldn't have been able to anyway, since they’d already left New York behind a couple hours ago.

He found he didn’t care. He should have, but he didn’t.

Frank’s pickup smelled like plastic and gasoline, gun powder and metal. It smelled like Frank, too. Matt couldn’t decide if he liked the familiarity of it, or loathed the reminder of this sort-of kidnapping. They’d conspired, he knew. They’d decided to stage some sort of intervention, in the shape of Frank. A wall he’d run into after stopping a mugging; a wall that he, somehow, didn’t want to fight. He’d been tired, just wanted to go home. Meditate for an hour or two, go over his notes again for court in the morning.

But Frank had been there.

“Red,” he’d said.

“What, forgot your gun? Got someone to kill?”

“You don’t look too good.”

“I wouldn't know.”

Frank had sighed through his nose and followed him home. Matt had just been too exhausted to throw a punch, kick him, or even just protest, and _that_ had been… well, a sort of wake-up call. Not enough to worry; he was past worrying, but enough to realize something was not quite right with him.

So now there he was, not quite dozing in Frank’s truck, heading to nowhere. Frank mentioned places, but they didn’t mean anything. They were not the city; they were not the Kitchen. Beyond that… he didn’t care.

Matt hadn’t been able to do much after getting home, Frank in tow, the night before; it had all hit him at the same time. The headaches, the dizziness, the nausea, the heavy, heavy limbs… He’d just gone straight to his couch and, well, disconnected. He didn’t think it had been sleep, not exactly.

When he’d clawed his way back to consciousness in the morning, there had been too many people. Foggy, who’d told him that court was on Monday, not today; that today was Sunday. Karen, making coffee and humming something under her breath. Maggie, doing something in his bedroom… putting clothes in a bag, sounded like. And Claire, she’d been so close he could almost have touched her, if only he’d reached out. He hadn’t.

“What…?” he’d tried asking.

“Buddy, you’re going on a vacation.” Foggy hadn’t been making sense. “Looks like you can’t be trusted to actually rest while you’re in New York, so we’re taking you _out_ of New York.”

“Before the city kills you.”

“Claire?”

“I heard you were working yourself to death. Not that I’m surprised; this city asks too much of you. I only wish you didn’t listen to it that much.”

No, it didn’t. He’d tried to argue, but she’d pointed out the state he was in; she’d poked his ribs and asked him to listen to his own heartbeat. He usually tuned it out but, well, it was true. He wasn’t in top shape. His reflexes were too slow; he wasn’t hitting as hard as he should. He’d only heard Jess was tracking him when she was a block away, the day before; he was slipping. He wasn’t good enough. So Claire had insisted he should get away from New York. He hated the idea; leaving the Kitchen? He’d be away from the calls for help, from the familiar echoes of pain and fear, from everything that pushed him to fight in court during the day and in the streets at night. Everything that made him feel alive and needed. Useful.

And then Frank had returned: silent, steady. Quiet. He wasn’t radiating concern or agitation, just… calm.

“Frank?”

“Heard about some places that need a dose of my style of healing. You get some fresh air and shit; I do what needs to be done.”

It had been a bit too convenient, but Frank hadn’t been lying. He did plan to go all Punisher on someone, somewhere.

“I’ve never been far out of New York.”

“Then it’s high time you did.” Maggie’s steps had gotten closer. “Here,” she’d added, “don’t forget this.” The crucifix she’d given him months ago, and that he’d taken off after they’d drilled a hole in his head and taken God away from him – or him away from God – was dropped on his stomach.

“How long?” Matt had asked.

“Few weeks. Depends on how long it takes me to find some of the assholes.”

“Don’t kill them.”

“Better come and lecture me to death about it, then.”

He hadn’t had it in him to fight them all, so he’d let it happen.

The truck stopped after… a while. A few hours. Frank cut the engine, got out, and slammed his door closed. Matt shivered in the gust of colder air and briefly wondered why they’d stopped. It didn’t smell like a gas station, and it didn’t sound like an inhabited place. His door opened suddenly and he almost fell out.

“Hey!”

“Get out, Murdock.”

Matt shrank back inside. “It’s cold.”

“We’ve been in the truck for hours. Got to get the blood pumping; get out.”

Who did he think he was, Stick? “I’m fine.” And then Frank grabbed Matt’s jacket and actually dragged him out; Matt managed to get his feet under himself just in time so he didn’t fall on his face. “What the hell, Frank?”

“You’re a real little ray of sunshine today. Ever been outside of a city, Red? It looks different. It sounds different. It smells different. Get used to it; I’m not baby-sitting you once we get to Rockford.”

What was in Rockford? Not that he cared. “I don’t need baby-sitting.”

“Then stop acting like a baby.”

The door closed behind Matt, and he heard the central lock click. He had a scarf inside, he remembered; he’d have to do without. Frank started out in what had to be a random direction and Matt followed; walking would warm him up.

There were still patches of snow here and there and without his cane, which was still in the truck, he had to rely on his senses – how sound reflected differently on it, the smells… There was something big and large ahead of them, but he wasn’t sure he could tell what it was. Warehouse? No, this wasn’t New York. A… barn? It felt much bigger, but also not as solid as a building.

Little by little, Matt relaxed. After a few minutes, he got used to recognizing where the snow was, and he could start processing that information semi-consciously; his focus started to spread further and deeper. The big, looming thing ahead, yes, but also countless critters and their strange, unfamiliar noises. It was probably quieter than it would be in a few weeks, when the spring would really hit these parts. Matt hoped he’d be back in Hell’s Kitchen by then; this strange world creeped him out. Too wide, too open, too mysterious.

“Woodpecker’s Forest,” Frank said out of the blue. “The name of the place.”

Ah. So it was a forest. Matt gave a vague hum and trudged on. Now they were closer, he could see he’d misjudged the size; the trees were randomly spaced and it had confused him. A part was denser, right in front of them, but all around it there were still trees, if sparser. Matt tried to listen, to map it out, as an exercise. He hated that place already, but it was good to practice. Pleasant things rarely made for good results, Stick had taught him.

“Ever climbed a tree, city boy?”

“There are trees in New York.”

“Race you up this one,” he said.

That would probably count as reckless, and Matt wondered what Claire or Foggy would say about that. “I thought I was supposed to rest.”

Frank sounded amused, like his lips were quirked up. “You, Red? Rest? Come on.”

Yeah, they’d seen how that had worked out.

Frank was first to what he said was the top, but Matt got higher because Frank was a wimp who was afraid of thinner branches.

The walk back to the truck felt quicker than it had on the way to the trees; Matt was surprised to feel his nausea had calmed down and that he was looking forward to the sandwiches Foggy had brought from his brother's shop. He called dibs on the prosciutto because he’d totally won the tree-climbing race, but Frank disagreed and tried to steal the sub from him.

Matt saved his prize and felt pleasantly full for the rest of the drive, sipping coffee from one of several thermos bottles Frank had brought.

He was good at this taking a break thing; Matt: 1, Vacation: 0.

They drove for three days, stopping in small-town diners and gas stations and whenever Frank decided he wanted to get some fresh air and exercise. Matt followed to have something to do in between long stretches of meditation and dozing in the car, and tried not to think about how lost he was. He considered escaping, running away, getting back to New York, but every time he stepped out of the truck he remembered he had no idea of where he was. Interstate this, small town that; what could he do? Walk up to a hunting store and say, _Hi, got lost on my way back home; how do I get back to Hell’s Kitchen?_ This wouldn't be suspicious at all. He couldn’t even rent a car; blind people didn’t have driver’s licenses.

Mostly, he thought of everything he wasn’t doing: pulling his weight at Nelson and Murdock, keeping the Kitchen as safe as he could at night… he wanted to, but he had to face the truth: he couldn’t. He still had bouts of nausea and dizziness, he still felt drained after a short walk, and he was pretty sure Frank had cottoned to it; he put the radio on low in the car and let him be, let him sleep, for hours. Matt didn’t understand: he’d been doing well for a while, going to work before putting on the mask at night. It hadn’t been a problem, whatever Karen or Foggy had said. He’d been fine. And then, a couple days – nights – ago, he’d… crashed. He felt like his strings had been cut. Claire would probably say the strings had been too frayed to hold for long, but he’d been doing well. So well.

And now he wasn’t.

On the third day, he felt the pressure and humidity shift in the air. It meant something, but he wasn’t sure what. As familiar as New York’s every brick and molecule of oxygen was, he found he had to relearn it all over again in this new place. In _every_ new place they were passing through. What was the point? They weren’t staying anywhere for more than one night, so it seemed pointless. Stick would be appalled, really.

As Frank put gas in the tank, Matt wandered to the small shop to get some water; he didn’t really focus on Frank until he realized Frank was actually talking to someone. Did he know people here?

Frank sounded a bit pissed, in fact.

“… you doing here?”

“My sons and I moved here. We couldn’t stay in Georgia after what happened.”

“Huh. Your boys, doing good?”

“They are well, God willing. The girl…?”

“She’s fine.”

There was an awkward silence and Matt walked back to the truck, tapping his cane as obnoxiously as possible. “Frank?” he said, slightly too loud.

“Haven’t moved, Red. You know here I am.”

“Your new protégé?”

Frank huffed. “Red’s no one’s protégé. We’re just driving through.”

“Ah.” The man turned in Matt’s direction and paused for a moment. “John Pilgrim,” he said.

“Matt Murdock.” He held out his hand and Pilgrim shook it; his hand was dry and strong. Scarred, too, and it felt like some bones were not quite straight. Broken and not healed right, Matt thought. Well, if Frank knew him… “Are you a friend of Frank’s?”

Matt could tell his little innocent act was getting on Frank’s nerves, from his annoyed little huff. “We’ve met before. Get back in the car; I’d like to get to Clifford before the night.”

“A snowstorm’s coming and you’re not going to beat it. Stay here.”

“Here where?” The town was not much more than a gas station, a bar, a grocery store, and some buildings that didn’t feel like hotels or inns to Matt’s senses.

“My house isn’t big, but it’s large enough to accommodate you.”

“I’m not staying at your house.” Matt turned his face toward Frank. _Why not?_ “We tried to kill each other. That’s how we met.”

“Oh,” Matt answered. “Well, so did we.”

Pilgrim laughed. “I have put that life behind me for good; God has welcomed me back into His fold and I am striving to be worthy of His forgiveness every single day.”

“So that’s why you’re asking, to get brownie points with God?”

“Redemption isn’t about brownie points, Frank.”

“Two of them,” Frank muttered.

“Are you a man of faith too, Mr. Murdock?”

“I’m Catholic.”

“Altar boy won’t shut up about either the law, justice, or redemption.”

“I bought a small farm here last year, but I’m also helping the church's pastor. You can join us for worship on Sunday.”

Matt smiled. “I’d love to.” The added benefit of making Frank seethe was making the deal even sweeter.

“Today’s Wednesday, Murdock.”

“The storm is going to last a while, and then the roads won’t be safe right away. God put me in your path for a reason; accept it. I have no reason to fight you. I have my boys, and they’re my life. _You_ know.”

Frank grunted and looked up. “Sky’s getting darker,” he said.

Matt put all his lawyer skills into extracting the bare bones of the story from Frank as they were following Pilgrim’s car to his isolated farm; it was an interesting tale. And he was definitely looking forward to spending the night in an actual house and not a shitty motel, for a change. It was, he decided, a blessing. From God.

The snow started to fall soon after they got to Pilgrim’s place; Frank drove his truck into some sort of barn and two kids came out to greet their father and carry the grocery bags back into the house. They seemed to recognize Frank and greeted Matt very politely. They reminded him of his time at St. Agnes, when the kids there were on their best behavior. He wondered if these two ever got as angry as they – okay, he – had been, at times.

Pilgrim led them to the house and showed them to a room with two bunk beds. “I’ll ask Lemuel and Michael to change the sheets for you.”

“We don’t want to put your sons out of their own beds,” Matt said.

“God tells us to welcome strangers in our own homes with an open heart, Mr. Murdock.”

“Matt, please.”

“John.”

Matt could feel the slight tension between Frank and John; it was as if both expected the other to suddenly snap and start a fight to the death. It was making him uncomfortable; the sense of wariness and their slightly elevated heart rates were raising the hair on Matt’s arms, as if their state of heightened vigilance was seeping into him, too. It was exhausting him just to be around them.

“Bathroom is two doors to your right, fresh towels are under the cupboard by the door. I’ll be in the kitchen; make yourself at home.”

“Do you need…”

“You’re guests, Matt.”

John left them alone with their bags and Matt listened to his steps echo in the stairs, building a better map of the house in his mind.

“Top or bottom?”

“What?”

“Top or bottom, Red? The beds.”

“Oh.” He liked high places, but maybe Frank would move too much and disturb his sleep. “Do you have a preference?”

Frank sighed. “I’ll take the bottom one. Doesn’t have a crucifix right above the head.”

“Hey.” But it was a mild protest, and Matt was just relieved he didn't have to choose. He could feel the exhaustion crawling back over him, and he was looking forward to sleeping and not remembering how he was letting his city down.

Once back downstairs Matt felt his way around, both to play the part of the regular blind guy and to keep moving. He was afraid he’d fall asleep right away if he stopped, and he wasn’t quite comfortable enough in this place to just do that. Knowing Frank would be right under him tonight would probably help; he trusted him. Whatever else he was, Frank was strong, solid, a wall Matt couldn’t take down but also a wall he could lean on if he needed to. He’d been there, at the hospital; when Matt hadn’t been able to stand anyone else, Frank had been the one constant. The only one not to make a decision in his name, the only one who didn’t tell him it was more important he lived than he keep his connection with God, the only one who didn’t dismiss the hole, the emptiness the surgery had left.

The tumor had been a tiny thing, that’s what the doctors had said. But it felt like they’d taken away so much more – the visions, the sense of peace, the acceptance from God… Matt didn’t want to believe it had all been fake, but how could he tell? How could he know? All that was left was a tiny scar on his scalp and a deep sense of loss. He didn’t even trust the memory of his father’s face anymore, and he’d truly forgotten colors. Had they ever been there? He knew he’d been born sighted, but had he truly remembered, before? Had his father really had blue eyes, and what was blue anyway? He just…

“Stop trying to wear a hole in that carpet, Red.”

“Uh?”

“You’ve been pacing for ten minutes. Just sit the fuck down.”

“Don’t swear.”

“Don’t think a couple fucks will turn them away from their Bible.”

Matt was gearing up for an argument when the two boys joined them in the living room.

The younger one fidgeted a bit before speaking, his shoes squeaking a bit on the floor. “We like to sing hymns before dinner,” he said.

Frank sighed.

“Can I join?” Matt asked.

The older boy sat at the piano that Matt pretended he hadn’t noticed before then, and Frank left the room to go sulk somewhere else.

“Do you know hymns, Mr. Murdock?”

“I do. I used to play for the orphanage’s choir when I was a boy.”

The kids forgot about hymns for a few minutes as they demanded to know more about growing up in orphanages, and Matt obliged. He sat on the bench after a while, and without really thinking about it let his fingers ran over the smooth, worn keys. This was an old piano; the wood and ivory were well-cared for. He played a chord, then another; he heard the kitchen door open and close.

“It’s a bit out of tune,” he said. The chords rang oh-so-slightly wrong.

“Really?”

Matt winced at Michael’s disappointed tone; maybe it wasn’t so out of tune that regular people would notice.

“Is it true that blind people have much better hearing than us?”

“Michael,” John said. “Apologize.”

“No need; he’s just curious. I do have a good ear, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m blind.”

“But you can tell the piano’s out of tune!”

“Not by much, I promise.”

“Good, then. Dinner’s in thirty minutes,” John added before going outside.

Matt heard him go after Frank and kept a bit of his attention on their short, stilted conversation about what Frank was doing in these parts. The wind was picking up outside as Matt’s focus went from a song about God’s lambs to Frank’s hit list, then a psalm, then to John asking if he needed weapons, and finally back to a hymn of praise and worship.

Both men came back in together and the kids scrambled to set the table; Frank didn’t say anything when John said grace, and the meal was a quiet affair. The two boys cleared the table and could be heard doing the dishes in the kitchen, chatting and giggling.

“They’re good kids,” Matt said. “But you’re putting us up while you didn’t have to, and I would like to do something in return, guests or not.”

“Are you working with Castle?”

“I…”

“You hold yourself like someone who knows where they are, like someone who’s always alert. And you’re traveling with him, with Frank Castle. He’s not the kind to burden himself with people who won’t be useful in his mission.”

“I’m blind, not useless.”

“Murdock’s not working with me. I’ll deal with what I have to do on my own.”

“They’re hurting families.”

“Frank, you never said…”

“Shut up. Karen’ll kill me if I let you fight.”

“So you do fight.” John didn’t sound surprised.

“He’s not fighting.”

“ _Families_ , Frank!”

“Looks to me like he’s fighting.”

“Want to join?”

John paused. “I told you. That life is behind me.”

“You still have a nice stash of weapons.”

“I’d do anything to protect my sons, a _nything._ I know my former… acquaintances might come after us too, one day; they have many branches all over the country. I can lose the chickens, but my sons?” His voice had gone a bit more intense for a second. “I’m always ready. But I’m not taking the risk of orphaning them if it’s not to save them.”

Matt opened his mouth and closed it; he didn’t think he could speak without his voice betraying him.

“Don’t even think about it, Red.”

He hadn’t been thinking about _it_ just right then, but now he was. Maybe punching people who hurt families was exactly what he needed; it was much less painful than thinking about Jack Murdock anyway. “You don’t think you’re going to boss me around, do you?”

“You’re not out here to get into fights.”

“I can’t let…” There was a big crash outside, and he turned his head. He couldn't quite figure out what it had been.

“A dead tree branch breaking under the weight of the snow,” John said. “Nothing to worry about.”

Well, maybe not if you’d grown up in the countryside. Matt felt too unsettled by everything and he excused himself to go upstairs. He’d wash up, try to meditate, maybe check his email to see if Foggy needed him, and he would _not_ pay any attention to anything outside the boys’ bedroom.

Frank’s return to the bedroom jolted Matt out of his meditation-turned-nap. Shit, he hadn’t planned to fall asleep.

“Sorry. Didn’t think you’d be sleeping,” Frank said. He kept his voice low and warm, like he did back at the hospital; it was familiar.

“It’s fine.”

Frank got closer to the bed, close enough that Matt was pretty sure he was studying him. “You still look like you need it.”

“Need what?”

A huff, and Frank moved away and started taking his clothes off. The fleece of his jacket, the cotton of his shirt and his jeans, brushing against each other and Frank’s skin. “Your beauty sleep.”

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”

“Guess you are; girls like you.” Frank’s smell was stronger now: the cheap, bland soap he used and the gunpowder always clinging to him, the coffee he drank like it was water and the day’s light sweat clinging to his skin.

Matt stretched and turned his face in Frank's direction. “What about boys?”

“They want to punch you,” Frank said. He was smiling, Matt could tell. Also, not quite telling the truth, whatever that meant. “Gonna wash up; okay if I leave the light on?”

“I’m blind, remember?”

“But you can hear it, right? The bulb.”

He could. He hadn’t thought Frank would have realized. “Uh, yeah, but it’s fine. It’s… background noise.”

“Yeah? You complained about it before, though.”

A floorboard creaked when Frank went to the bathroom; he’d left the light on. Matt generally tried not to think too much about the early days after the surgery, surrounded by all the hospital noises and smells and with drugs in his veins and… it had all felt wrong. Frank’s solid presence had been an anchor.

Matt sighed. He’d been kicked out of New York so he’d be forced to rest but he suspected if Frank hadn’t been with him, hadn’t had his back, he wouldn't have rested at all. He wouldn't have slept at all since they’d left, surrounded by houses that settled and sheep that bleated and whatever it was that screeched at night. He shouldn’t depend so much on someone, anyone; Stick had tried again and again to teach him to cut all ties. He’d never managed, Matt mused as his thoughts slowed down again. He’d never really wanted to.

The bed shook a little when Frank lay down, and then Matt lost all grip on wakefulness.

* * *

Frank hadn’t expected Murdock to look fresh as a daisy after only a couple days, but with all the hours he’d spent sleeping or meditating (looked like napping to Frank, not that he would say it out loud and start Red off on some rant) one could have expected the bags under his eyes to shrink some. They hadn’t, not really. He probably wasn’t too happy to be out of New York, too; he kept twitching and startling like he was hearing things he couldn’t pinpoint. He was a city boy through and through; take him out of his beloved Kitchen and he was lost.

Well, Frank hadn’t been too comfortable either, the first time he’d left the homeland.

But this – Pilgrim’s small farm, the chickens in their coop and the orchard at the back, it reminded him of his grandparents’ old place. It wasn’t bad, for a new start. With the money taken from the Schultzes, Pilgrim had managed to do all right. He’d probably need some help in the orchard come harvest time, and he’d have to build up his production, maybe branch out into something else, but he could make it. Give his kids a home, make enough money to get by. Leave them something to live on. He was lucky, and he knew it.

Outside, the wind picked up again; the window shutters kept knocking on the frame. The heater clicked in the room, and there was a particularly loud noise outside – sounded like another branch breaking off, maybe from that dead tree by the barn.

“Frank?”

Of course. “You still awake?”

“I guess I was dreaming, but – it wasn’t a gunshot, was it?”

“No. Go back to sleep.”

Red moved and made the bed frame shudder. “Don’t think I can right now.”

“Suit yourself.” The bed shuddered again, and Frank sighed. “What now?”

“Did you ever consider it? Leaving it all behind, living a quiet life in a place like this.”

“ _You_ find this quiet?”

“Well, no. But most people do, right? That’s what they say.”

“Who’s _they_?”

“ _Frank_.”

“Just sleep, yeah?”

“Bossy.”

But Murdock grew calm and quiet again, and Frank was left alone with his thoughts. Memories. Yeah, he’d talked about it with Maria; they’d talked about life after his last tour, about getting a dog, a bigger house, a real garden. He’d liked the idea; he wasn’t sure he’d have liked the reality of it. Maria, she’d never pushed. She knew.

Anyway, he’d had a chance but it had been taken from him, and now he wasn’t the kind of man to go for that kind of life. Now, he had a goal; only reason he was still alive was to get rid of all those who threatened families like the one he’d lost.

Whatever altar boy said, it was a useful purpose, and one worth dying for. Frank was fine with that.

Everything outside was white in the morning, and the sky was a clear blue. The snow wouldn't last; it was too late in the year for that, but for now it was pretty. Lisa and Frank Jr. would have loved it. The boys were busy working on a snowman, and it was too easy to see his own kids instead of them. He turned around to look at Pilgrim.

“Anything need to be done round here?”

Pilgrim shrugged. “Do you know anything about tractors? A neighbor sold me his old one for almost nothing when he bought a bigger one, but the engine’s not doing great.”

“I can give it a look. The barn?”

“Yes. Toolbox’s there, too.”

“I’ll find it.”

Frank put on his boots and coat in the mudroom before stepping out. Sounded like Murdock was having a moment with the piano in the house; he wouldn't bother Frank for a while. Pilgrim left the porch too, to go feed the chickens or whatever it was he did after breakfast.

The tractor wasn’t that old, Frank decided when he got into the barn. Not new, but not that ancient. Either the neighbor had wanted to get in the new pastor’s good graces right from the start, or the tractor itself was seriously fucked up and he’d wanted to get rid of it. Only one way to know, yeah. Frank got to work.

“You’ve been at it for a while,” Pilgrim said from the door Frank had left open so he didn’t choke on the exhaust.

“Yeah. Found what the problem is, though. A part needs to be changed, but it should hold for…”

A gunshot rang out near the house, a real one; one of the boys screamed.

Pilgrim dove for a box under the tool bench and grabbed a couple guns from it; he held out one to Frank with a shaking hand.

“My sons,” he said.

“Yeah.” Red should be with them, but Red wasn’t in his element; who knew what he would or could do. “You take the front; I’ll go around.”

Pilgrim nodded then added some ammo, a knife, and brass knuckles to his arsenal before going out. Frank looked down into it and took a ka-bar knife and a second gun. For a peaceful man of god, Pilgrim had a little armory at his disposal – and the box was nothing; most of it was in the house. Not that Red would make use of it, of course.

Frank peered out and gave it a moment. After a few seconds, a few gunshots and a cut-off scream told him Pilgrim was keeping some assholes busy; Frank ran out to the back of the house. He quickly dispatched a guy who thought he could get the drop on him; a silent knife through the throat showed him the error of his ways. A bit further away Frank found tire marks in the snow; they were from something big, maybe a van. Could be a dozen men around, easy. Shit.

“Red, stay with the kids,” he whispered. “Low profile.” He knew Murdock would pick it up.

It was quiet for a few seconds then a body flew through one of the upstairs window to land at Frank's feet; of course Red was a stubborn idiot who wouldn’t do as he was told. Frank aimed at the fucker’s head.

“Don’t,” Red said from the window.

Jesus fucking Christ. Frank shot the guy in the gut; he’d live. Probably. If he was just a little bit lucky. “The kids?”

“Lemuel’s safe and hidden, but they got Michael.”

Shit.

“Robbie!” That was a new voice, coming from behind the storehouse; Frank took cover behind a woodpile. “That’s a nice boy you got there, uh? Shame if something happened to him, right?”

Pilgrim came out from around the porch and walked out into the open. He was covered in blood, and there was a deep cut on his outer thigh. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he said. “Let my son be; he’s done nothing to you.”

“Dad!”

“I’m coming for you.”

Fuck, he was going to get himself… There were several gunshots; wood chips flew in Frank’s face and he heard a thump, then a muffled groan. Frank looked out: Red had just landed on top of Pilgrim. He’d lost his glasses at some point, and he had a split lip already.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Frank wanted to strangle Murdock. “Get back here, I’ll cover you,” and he shot at the storehouse while Pilgrim and Red scrambled up and joined him.

“Robbie, come on! You got new friends, now? Give us back the money you took from the Brotherhood all those years ago and we’ll spare the kid, okay? Call it quits. That’s fair, yeah? What do you say, Robbie?”

“They’ll kill you both if you go out.”

 _No shit, Murdock,_ Frank thought.

“I know.” Pilgrim’s face was blank, like he’d shut down everything but his goal. He stared at Red, expressionless. “Do you often fall out of windows?”

“Happens. Blind, you know. Don’t see ‘em.”

“Not the fucking time, Red.”

“What? It’s true.” He tilted his head. “Michael’s fine; scared, but fine. Lemuel’s hiding in the house.”

“How do you know?”

“He knows.” Pilgrim opened his mouth but Frank stopped with a shake of his head. “Don’t ask.”

“My sons…”

“How many, Red? With the kid.”

“Five.”

“ _How_ do you…”

“And three more,” Murdock said, then threw a piece of wood from the pile to someone behind them. A guy trying to sneak on them dropped down, and Red picked up and dismantled his gun before fucking off further back around the porch.

Pilgrim made to follow him but Frank held him back. “Let him be; he won’t let them get around us. We’re going to get Michael.” Frank looked at the storehouse, then at the sixty feet between them and the storehouse. “Don’t suppose you have a secret tunnel.”

“No. But with the snow, they can’t see the ditch.” He pointed to the fence that ran around the yard. “You can crawl under easily; it was made to keep horses out.”

“Fine. Just like boot camp, then.” Frank stuck his gun in his belt, like he’d been taught never to do. “They won’t expect me.”

“I’m sure they won’t.” Pilgrim almost smiled and stepped out into the open, hands in the air.

Frank hoped for the kids’ sake that the assholes would try and get the intel they wanted about money before shooting him, and focused on his own part. He slithered under the fence and found the ditch was pretty deep; it would cover him well. He crawled ahead, letting Pilgrim’s attempts at talking the guys – the enemy – down cover the noises he was making in the snow. Soon enough, he’d gotten behind them and he made his way back to the other side of the fence again. The boy looked fine, terrified but holding it together so far; attaboy. Frank stood up and said “Down, kid,” then he started shooting.

It didn’t last long; the kid was smart and rolled under a bench and the other assholes found themselves between Pilgrim’s and his own fire; it was over in a few seconds.

“Michael?”

The boy crawled out from behind the bench and ran to his father; Frank looked away.

Their attackers had come in some sort of van and it had driven away, so they weren’t entirely out of the woods yet. That gang had backup somewhere. Frank picked up a rifle from one of the guys and started a perimeter check; he wanted to be ready. As he was doubling back to return to the house, he heard it: an engine coming toward them, from where the tire tracks had disappeared. Shit. And he was a bit low on ammo, too.

He got ready to shoot through the windshield and make every bullet count when a new engine sputtered to life in the barn. What the hell? Who – Jesus Christ. The tractor got out of the barn right as the van drove past and rammed it; the van slid down until it crashed into the fence, fell in the ditch and barrel-rolled into a stop, its wheels still turning.

Red, the fucking idiot, jumped down from the tractor and high-fived Lemuel, who’d just run out of the barn.

“What do you think, Frank?”

“I think you’re an asshole.”

Murdock seemed to think it was a compliment, the way he grinned. The kid left them and hurried to his dad and brother, and Frank could hear them thank god and do whatever it was good little Bible-thumpers did.

“You shouldn't swear, “ Red said.

“Yeah? You shouldn't drive.”

“Eh, I didn’t, really. Lemuel started it, and I just pointed the tractor in the right direction at the right moment.”

“Sure.” Frank looked into the van and saw the guys were all knocked out, at the very least. “Anyone left we should worry about?”

Red did his head-tilt thing. “No, but the sheriff is on her way.”

“Shit.”

“Well, it’s self-defense, and they outnumbered you.”

“Your coming here was a gift from God.” Pilgrim sighed. “And a reminder I have much to atone for, and again today… but you’re safe,” he added to the kids.

 _Yeah_ , Frank thought. _Yeah,_ you _saved your kids._

Murdock touched Frank’s arm for a moment and spoke right as the sheriff’s car parked. “You weren’t alone, and you were expecting them.”

“No, I wasn’t alone,” Pilgrim said as if Red had spoken only to him. “I was luckier than others.”

Then the sheriff reached them and she started taking stock of the situation, her deputies dishing out both first aid and handcuffs all around the farm. She was on the phone to call for reinforcements and soon enough, EMTs and more law enforcement were swarming the property, carrying stretchers and body bags. Frank left them to it and went to dry off in front of the kitchen’s wood-burning stove.

Once most of them were away and she was the only officer left, she joined them in the kitchen where Pilgrim had started hot chocolate for the boys and a fresh pot of coffee for the adults; a medic was also just finishing on Frank’s scalp wound. Just needed a couple stitches was all. The sheriff started asking some pointed questions and Red, who’d gone upstairs for a minute and come back down with fresher clothes that hid whatever injuries he had and his miraculously intact glasses, managed to convince her that he, the blind guy, had only followed the kid around and absolutely not ninja-ed his way around the house.

“Mr. Pilgrim and his past I know about; he told me about it. But you… you’re military?” Sheriff Burton asked Frank.

“Yeah. Marines.”

“You look like it. All right, so you two managed to dispatch almost 15 guys while making sure the boys were unhurt, and…” She looked at Red.

“The boys and the blind guy, yeah. That’s what you’re thinking, sheriff, right?” Oh, he was bitter. Well, he had a right to be.

But the sheriff wasn’t – well, she wasn’t blind. “You were hit in the face,” she said.

“Well, it happens.”

“And your knuckles… you fought.”

You had to hand it to the kids: they didn’t let anything show on their faces and studiously focused on their chocolates and cookies.

“I can throw a punch, even if I can’t see what I’m aiming at.”

“Uh huh.” She tapped her pen on her pad. “Mr. Murdock. You’re a lawyer, yes?”

“I am.”

“From New York, like Mr. Castiglione here.”

“That’s right.”

“Which is a transparent alias for one Frank Castle, also from New York, former Marine, whom you defended a few years ago. And are apparently now going on road trips with.”

Red’s face soured. “It is on public record I defended Frank Castle, yes. And as far as I know, there is no APB on him _or_ Mr. Castiglione.”

“There should be, but Mr. Castle must have friends.” Annoying federal agents, more like. He hoped Madani was doing well for herself. “Look,” the sheriff went on, “I’m not here to make your life worse. My cousin’s in the NYPD and he’s told me enough stories that I know better than to poke at this too much; I’m not leaving this town, that’s for sure. _You’re_ not my problem,” she said with a pointed glance at Frank, “and how a blind guy ends up mostly unhurt but with a split lip and busted knuckles…”

“I’m fine.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Of course. Listen, I’ll keep to your story in my report as long as it’s not contradicted by the evidence; the guys you sent to the hospitals aren’t going to make friends in court anyway and a few are already cold. Some have APBs on them, actually, and that on top of the fact they clearly tried to ambush you…” She sighed. “They’re absolutely going to jail for a good long while. Hospital first, of course. Also for a good long while.”

“I’ll pray for them,” Pilgrim said. “God found me when I was where they are. They only need to open their hearts to Him.”

“Right. Oh, and before I go, here’s my card. It’s my cell phone number; if you need to reach me quick.”

Pilgrim looked at it. “It says _Sheriff Mahoney_.”

“Yeah, I didn’t get around to having a new batch made after I got married.”

“Mahoney? Is your cousin _Brett_ Mahoney?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me he’s a friend; he hates lawyers.”

Red grinned then winced when he remembered his split lip. “It’s complicated,” he said.

“I’m sure it is. Look, I’ll tell my husband to come and fix your window before nightfall, okay?”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Yeah, well, can’t let the kids freeze to death.” Shit, Red had broken _that_ window? Her husband had better come and fix it quick; Frank didn’t want to deal with a cold and very probably whiny Red throughout the night. “And get ready for lots of casseroles from everyone in town too; no one will want the deputy pastor, his boys, and his guests to lack for food. Silver lining, right?”

“Absolutely, Sheriff Burton. God provides for His flock. Thank you, and may God be with you.”

Pilgrim and the boys walked her out, and Frank was left with Murdock in the kitchen.

He scratched his cheek; the beard he was growing was itching. “So, where are you hurt?”

“I’m…”

“Shut up; you’re favoring your right side. Medic could have looked at you.”

“I don’t like letting strangers poke at me.”

“So who’s gonna poke at you, now?”

The idiot scowled. “I can do it myself.”

“Jesus Christ, Red. Come on, I’ll look at it. You’re not going to do shit right now.”

“I don’t need…”

He was shaking now the adrenaline was wearing off, and he hadn’t been in such great shape right before. He’d been barely holding it together until the sheriff left, in fact, but now the strain was showing. “Get your ass upstairs or I’m carrying you.”

 _That_ got him moving.

And yeah, the casseroles kept coming all afternoon while the window was replaced.

The kids were shaken, even if they were trying to hide it. Pilgrim seemed to think family prayer was the answer, and then the old town pastor came by with his wife (and more casseroles) in the evening. There was even more praying and Bible reading and all that shit, so Frank made himself scarce and went upstairs with a toolbox to try and fix what he could – fix that shelf, make sure the banister held, put fresh sheets on the bunk beds, sweep some shards of glass that the window guy had missed. No need to have Red walk on it, yeah.

Murdock himself was hiding in the kitchen; he did the dishes first then stayed to do something on his laptop. Catching up on work, he’d said; Frank left him to it. When he heard the front door close, he got back downstairs to find Pilgrim was preparing the sofa-bed for his kids.

“They could get their own beds back. What do you say, boys?”

Michael shook his head and looked at his father.

“You’re not afraid of Frank, are you?”

The boy shook his head again.

“We want to sleep downstairs,” Lemuel said. “Dad sleeps downstairs.”

And there wouldn’t be much sleeping, Frank could tell. “Fine. Well then. Good night.”

“Good night,” the boys mumbled. Pilgrim only nodded at him; he too looked shaken. Man was probably happy to have the kids as close as possible, that night; Frank couldn't blame him.

“Yeah, good night.”

Frank left them to go to the kitchen and found Murdock with his head pillowed on his arms, the laptop whirring gently in front of him.

“You really want me to carry you up, yeah?”

Red twitched then looked up. “I’m awake,” he mumbled. “Just resting my eyes.”

“You’re a shit liar.”

Murdock’s lips twitched; his glasses were all askew on his face and Frank took them off without thinking. “I’m not; I’m very good at it.”

Frank shut the computer down and put the glasses into Red’s hands. “C’mon, there’s a bed with your name on it upstairs.”

After the fight that morning, Red clearly had decided he didn’t need to pretend he was the regular kind of blind man around the house; he stood up, slid his glasses in the front pocket of his sweater, and picked the laptop up before striding out into the sitting room, no cane in sight anywhere.

The Pilgrims were not there anymore, maybe having some more bonding prayer time somewhere else or plucking the chickens or whatever shit farmers did at 10 pm. Frank followed Murdock up the stairs and noted that his movements were less easy than usual; his muscles had stiffened.

“You walk like an old guy, Red.”

“Well, good thing I get to experience some highlights, I guess.”

“Of what, stiff muscles?”

“Old age. Not planning on getting there,” he replied as he put the laptop on the dresser and his glasses on top of it.

Frank closed the bedroom door behind them. “You’re pretty hard to kill.”

“Someone’s going to get me one day.”

“Don’t see yourself settling down?”

“Why, you can’t but _I_ can?” Frank shrugged. Why not? “Murdocks,” Red continued. “We die young.”

“You don’t have to. There's no fate, Red; we build our own.”

“Build, eh.” He climbed up to the top bunk and sat there, his sock feet dangling in the air like a kid’s. “In my life, I’ve always been much better at destroying. Just ask Karen, or Foggy. I fuck things up, Frank; it’s what I do. They’ve forgiven me, but…”

“But what? Forgiveness, is that conditional? You’re Catholic, right? So. Yeah.” Frank wasn’t a lawyer; speeches weren’t his thing, but he was pretty sure Red got his meaning.

“It’s hard. Forgiveness is hard. I can’t be forgiven if I can’t forgive, and there are things… I remember them, and as long as I do I can’t get past this – this poison in my heart, my soul. All the things done to me, and all the things I did unto others; how can I…” His voice caught. “Forgiveness is everything I hope for, but I can’t even forgive myself. I can confess as many times as I want; it’s just not in me; I try to find that light, and I _can’t_. Maybe God doesn’t want me to; maybe I don’t deserve it, but I can’t find the light.”

Shit, Frank wanted to lie down, not get the details on all the ways Murdock’s head was messed up. “Thought you couldn’t see light, Red.”

“Oh, haha, mock the blind man.” But it made him smile and finally get the fuck in bed, so that was a victory. “Sweet dreams, Frank.”

“Fuck off.”

“Aw, love you too.”

Just as he felt his body wind down into sleep, Frank wondered how much shit was hidden under the cockiness Red offered the world… well. Not his business.

The rest of the week was much less exciting. Frank waited for the roads to be cleared of the snow and helped Pilgrim fix shit around the house. On the evening after the attack, after leaving Murdock at the piano with the boys, Pilgrim held out a little paper bag to him and said, “That’s yours.”

Frank opened it. It was his wedding ring, the one he’d lost in a fight. “You found it.”

“I did. I’d planned to look you up and send it to you, but you’re hard to find.”

“Yeah.” Frank swallowed. He’d thought it lost forever, and now he had that one last piece of what he’d had with him again. “Appreciate it.”

Pilgrim nodded and left the room, and they never talked about it again. Frank simply started wearing it once more on a chain under his shirt.

As for Red, he did some yoga thing in the mornings then spent a few hours every day working, either on his computer or on the phone with his buddy Nelson. He drafted some papers for Pilgrim too and filled some forms for him; Frank had no idea what it was. That kind of stuff had always been Maria’s job; she’d had a good head for it and Frank hadn’t really cared about anything, afterward. Red also helped the kids with their homework, charmed the pastor’s wife into bringing more pie, and took about three naps a day, some of which he called meditation. Whatever rocked his boat, yeah.

When Sunday came he went to the church with the Pilgrims, but Frank refused. He checked his truck, went in town to fill the tank and buy some food, and took a moment to call David since for once Red was hopefully far enough not to hear.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself. So, I read about your exploits in the deep country. Trouble follows you, uh?”

“You knew I was going after trouble, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, so I looked up the names you texted and you’re right, most of them were part of the Rockford cell. You got them, friend.”

“Had planned on going after them, not them attacking me.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it looks like they really were after your murder pastor friend, not you.”

“Huh? Thought they’d just got wind of Pilgrim’s story and used it. He said he didn’t recognize them.”

“Well, the Aryan Brotherhood have collected a bunch of new members in the last ten years. I can tell you you _definitely_ got the Brotherhood, if by chance.”

“Well. Good, then.”

“Yeah, good.” David clicked his tongue. “You know what? Leo’s been asking a lot about your road trip buddy; I think she’s got a crush.”

“What?”

“She saw his face on my screen while I was looking up the local papers and she found out his name and everything, just not his personal cell. Look, she could do way worse than him, right?”

“That man’s definitely not son-in-law material.”

“Hey, it’s still better than her crush on you, okay? I call it progress.”

Frank groaned. “Please. I’m way better. How’s the wife?”

“Oh, I see, still being an asshole, are we? She said you won’t get invited for dinner until you’re done with those guys.”

“Still threatening your rabbi?”

David sighed. “Yeah. I mean, we know these people exist; it’s nothing new. But shit, I can’t stand seeing Zach refuse to learn Hebrew just because he doesn’t want his schoolmates to know we’re Jewish, you know?”

“Yeah.” _Shit_ , yeah. There was a reason Frank had wanted to go after this Brotherhood, after all. They hurt good people, families; they made money racketeering and trafficking and dealing and Frank wasn’t having it. “Listen, I still got shit to buy before their service is over, then this afternoon we’ll be heading for Green Creek. Send me what intel you got, yeah?”

“Will do. Take care, Frank.”

He was still alive, wasn’t he? “You know me,” he said before hanging up.

Time to look at the map.

Red had been moody since they’d left the town. He’d poked at his phone, earbuds in, and listened to a couple messages he got; he waited until they stopped for lunch to go hide somewhere and answer back where Frank wouldn’t hear. He saw him speaking into his phone at the other end of the diner’s parking lot, after telling Frank to stay in and order coffee for them both.

It wasn’t Frank’s problem. Red’s moods _weren’t_ his problem.

But then when they got back into the car he said, “We’re not going back to New York, are we?” in such a forlorn voice, Frank didn’t know for a moment whether to laugh at him or ruffle his hair.

“You know we’re not.”

“You could drop me at some train station somewhere. I can find my way back to the city.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“But?”

But, he wasn’t stopping anywhere near a train station. Not that it would stop Red if he really wanted to get back to his Kitchen; still, it was a start. “But we’re not.”

“Did you kidnap me, Frank?”

“No.”

“You just won’t let me go home.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

Yes, he did. “If you get back there, you know what’ll happen, right?”

“No.”

“Like that word, uh? _No_.”

“ _Frank_.”

“Remember that day I found you lying on a roof and spouting shit about god and having visions?”

Red pursed his lips; he wanted to say no. He shook his head instead.

“Right. And do you remember the time after?”

“I was fine.”

Frank sighed heavily.

“I was _getting there_. I was going out, working, doing good.”

“Too much too soon, and you know it.”

“And what was I supposed to do? I hear – I hear them, Frank! I can’t not…” He made a frustrated noise, then subsided. It wasn’t a new argument, and he’d probably already had it with his friends too.

“Yeah.”

“I know that you all think I’ll rest more away from the city, but I…”

Frank let the sound of the engine fill the quiet while Murdock looked for words. He was pretty sure what it was anyway: Red was homesick, away from everything he knew, everything that made him who he was. It was just that it was killing him, too. For better or worse, yeah; he was married to the city.

“I’m not your responsibility, Frank.”

Looked like he’d stopped trying to find words, then. Fine by Frank. “You needed to get away.”

“What’s in it for you? You prefer working alone.”

“Eh, you’re a lawyer. Figured that could come in handy.” It sure had, with Sheriff Mahoney; Red had smoothed out a few things and made sure they could leave town without problems.

And Frank couldn't, in fact, shake that sense of responsibility, after finding him losing his grasp on sanity little by little. After Red had clung to him as the only one he believed. He’d wanted Frank with him; he’d trusted _him_ and no one else. Frank couldn't remember a time when someone had put so much faith in him outside of the Marines with his unit, where it had been life or death.

No, that was a lie; he remembered. He just – it was easier not to remember, sometimes. And harder, now he could feel the reminder against his skin, the weight around his neck. How could such a tiny ring weigh so much?

“You okay, Frank?”

“Yeah.” Maybe he’d blinked wrong or something and Murdock had heard it with his freaky ears. “Your fancy ninja kicks can be useful too, sometimes. Showy, though.”

Red hummed. “No fancy ninja kicks, the other day.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” A pause; he took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “I just… I get headaches, sometimes. Bit dizzy.”

“Nausea?” He’d noticed Red picking at his food sometimes, that he looked like it turned his stomach.

“Sometimes.”

Yeah, Frank remembered. “It’ll pass. Give it time.”

A hole in the head, it was more than just a hole in the head. It was a bit of brain that wasn’t there anymore but you couldn't tell what had been taken out, afterward. Like coming home and knowing something was missing, but what? It looked fine, normal. You were still you but different, with no way to remember who you were, before. You just knew you’d been a different you.

Frank glanced to the side and saw Red’s head had fallen against the window, his lips parted and his eyes closed. The glasses were still folded in his hands, so Frank took them and put them in the glovebox.

He drove on.

* * *

They stopped in a small town for the night, then another the night after; they rarely stayed more than two nights in a row anywhere. It became a routine. Matt was pretty sure Frank had a goal and wasn’t driving aimlessly, but he didn’t really want to ask. He thought he might not like the answer, and he didn’t feel up to an argument; what energy he had he kept for the few hours a day he could spend building up his strength again or working – a bit in the evenings or mornings, often also mid-afternoon when Frank left him in a coffee shop or a diner and went out do whatever it was he wanted to. Buying snacks, getting intel, calling people on the phone. Matt tried to focus on what his screen reader said in his ear and not whatever (whoever) it was that Frank was after, in those moments.

There was plenty to do anyway: planning arguments, researching precedents, and a few times taking an hour or so to advise a client on the phone.

“I’m sorry I’m letting you down,” he told Foggy one evening. He’d gone outside of their shitty little motel; the crisp air kept him more alert than he’d have been in the heated room.

“You’re not letting us down. We’re using everything you send, and Mr. Fernandez said we could go to his shop and get our clothes fitted for free whenever we wanted. His shop is safe now; you gave him the advice he needed.”

“That’s good.”

“It is!” Foggy paused. “So, uh. I’m glad you’re calling me, but… it’s been a few weeks now. Did you call anyone else?”

“Who?”

Fog’s sigh could probably be heard all through Manhattan. Well, it could if you were Matt, maybe. “I don’t know, Karen? Claire? Jess? Maggie?”

“Pretty sure you and Frank are in touch with Karen, Claire’s busy, and Jess doesn’t give a damn.”

“You’re full of shit and you know it. And what about your mom?”

“Don’t – ” Matt took a deep breath. He didn’t like, he didn't _want_ anyone to refer to Maggie as his… mom. It wasn’t like she’d ever tried to get news about him for years and years and _years_ , after all. She could wait a little. “I’ll text Claire tomorrow.”

“Okay, that’s good. She’ll be happy to hear from you.”

There was an awkward silence. “So, how’s Marci? And how’s Theo?”

“Theo’s good. Marci’s just won a big case, so we’re celebrating this weekend; big fancy restaurant and everything.”

“Aw, can you still afford it? Since you left the fancy corner office.” Because of Matt.

“Marci’s bringing home the bacon; really it’s the entire pig at this point. But you know, our little firm’s doing good, too. We’re not paid in pies anymore. Well, we get the pies, but it’s on top of actual money, so hey. Not complaining.” There were a few thumps as if Foggy was patting his stomach. “Yummy.”

“And how’s the city?”

“Eh, I don’t know. Ask Jess?”

“Foggy…”

“The city’s fine; it’s like it’s always been. I’ve heard some people ask about Daredevil, wonder where he was; mostly they say they hope he’s well and taking a vacation somewhere warm. So you know what to do: come back with a tan.”

Matt’s fingers tightened into the scarf dangling from his neck. Not looking likely, the tan thing. “I’ll work on it.”

“You do that.” Foggy’s voice softened a bit more. “And call them, buddy. Call your mom, okay?”

 _Don’t break the phone,_ Matt thought. _Don’t._ “Yeah. Night, Fogs. Say hi to Marci from me?”

“Will do!”

Matt stayed outside after hanging up; the cold made him feel more alive than all the hours in the truck. He wondered what would happen if he started walking now, following the road until… until what? Maybe a car would stop, drive him somewhere else. Maybe a farmer would think he was a trespasser and shoot him. Maybe some… animal would attack him. A wolf? Were there wolves here? Maybe a bear? He had no idea. He knew predators, if they were human. He knew foxes and wild dogs, in New York. Here… Here, he didn’t know anything.

A door opened behind him, and Frank’s steady heart got that bit louder. “Come on in, Red. You’re going to scare the shit out of the other people, standing there like a scarecrow.”

Matt shook himself and turned back to cross the yard to where their room was, and tried not to appreciate how his muscles thawed with the warmth. It felt too good, like something he didn't deserve.

“How’s Nelson?”

“Good.” Matt sat on his bed and started to work on his shoelaces. It wasn’t going as quickly as he wanted, with cold fingers. “So,” he said. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Nowhere. Staying here.”

“Scoped out the area? Spotted your target? Planned your attack?”

“Yeah.”

First boot dropped on the floor. “Are you going to share?”

“Are you going to try and stop me?”

His fingers were a bit warmer, and the second boot went quicker. “Just tell me.”

“Fine. Remember the assholes that came after Pilgrim?”

“Yes.”

“They’re part of a larger group. I took down the NYC cell a month ago, and the guys that attacked Pilgrim’s farm were actually the first cell I’d planned to hit outside of the city. Now we’re going to the second one.”

“In this town?”

“Nah, 10 miles west. I asked around, found where they’re hiding.”

“Are you going to kill them?”

“What’s it to you? Going to talk my ear off about redemption again?”

Matt thought. Was he? “I don’t know.”

“Don’t tell me you want me to kill them. That's not you, Red.”

Wasn’t it? “I used to think… God wants all of us to have a chance to do better. He gives, and He forgives. I believed it. No; I _wanted_ to believe it.”

The bedsprings squeaked as Frank sat up. “Not anymore?”

“I don’t know if forgiveness is the answer. I’ve tried to forgive my… someone. I want to forgive her, but deep down I know it was my fault too. I know that she left because of me. If I forgive her, then I have to forgive myself, and I don’t know – what does He want? Forgiveness doesn’t change anything; it doesn’t change what happened. I wish I could forget so I didn’t have to forgive, but I can’t forget either. How do I go on?”

“Who’re you talking about, Red? Your girl?”

Elektra? No. Although he could more or less say the same thing about her, now he thought about it. But no, he’d been thinking about Maggie. She was a nun; did she know how to forgive? Had she forgiven herself? But it hadn’t been her fault, not really. Not _all_ of it. “No, not Elektra. I just… don’t know what God wants, and how to do it, and if I still want to do it. If He’s abandoned me, why should I still try to do His will? Do I even know His will?” Matt shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“So, does it mean you won’t sulk if I kill them?” Frank asked after a moment.

“You can’t kill them; they should go on trial if they did something bad.” Shit, the words had just flown out of his mouth.

“Attaboy.” Frank sounded pleased, somehow. “So if god doesn’t answer when you knock, you can still rely on the law to be a pain, right?”

“Do you have enough on them to make sure they’ll go behind bars? Something that will hold up in court?”

“Maybe. Check this out and tell me, lawyer.”

And Frank put a flash drive in his hand.

It turned out that the drive held a lot of information that Frank had acquired via means he wouldn’t divulge. Matt was aware Frank had his own laptop and knew his way around it but he wasn’t a hacker, and some of that intel had to have come from someone who was. As it was, those documents had given Frank and his mysterious helper tips on how and what to look for that would be useful and, in some cases, legally admissible in court.

Matt spent a few hours going through all the files, until his ears begged him to take the earbuds away; Frank waited patiently on the next bed reading a book.

“What else do you got?” Matt asked after closing the laptop and setting it to charge. These people were planning to go after a Jewish school before the end of the month; they had to be stopped.

“You just read through it.”

“You have more. I know you’ve been looking.”

“I’ve been looking for money to pay for gas, Red.”

Matt knew Frank did odd jobs here and there: a few times he’d transported stuff in the back of the truck from one town to another for a fee, and there was the motel that had let them stayed for free as long as Frank did some odd jobs around for a few days. But money had never seemed to be an issue; it was just easy cash, and Matt paid for stuff too.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Matt said. “There’s nothing about places, and you know I can’t see the photos. You don’t want me to know something.”

“I don’t want you to try and follow me.”

“So why did you give me that drive?”

“Because you’re a lawyer. Whatever happens, you’ll know what to do with it.”

“ _Whatever happens?_ What, are you planning to die?”

“No. I kill, Red; I don’t die.”

“So?”

“So, maybe I’ll have to run or, I don’t know, something. But even if I don’t get them all, there’s still that intel.”

“Whoever found it for you also has it.”

“He can’t be associated with me if this comes out.”

“But I can?”

“Well, you’re my lawyer. I can give my lawyer shit, yeah?”

Matt sighed and carefully put the drive on the bedside table, right next to his phone. “When are you going?”

“You think I’m going to tell you?”

“You think I’m not going to follow you?”

“You can try.”

“You’re not leaving me behind!”

“They need gone. I can do that; you can’t.”

“I…”

“You won’t kill them.”

“I could!”

“Shut up, Red; you’re not killing anyone. What about fair trials and all that shit?”

Matt could feel the blood rush faster in his veins, his adrenaline pumping. It felt good. “I could.” He almost had, with Fisk. And he wasn’t sure his faith was enough to hold him back, now. He wasn’t sure he still _had_ his faith.

“You’re not. I’m not letting you.”

That stopped Matt in his thoughts. “Letting me?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Letting me?_ I can decide for myself!”

“Why didn’t you kill, before?”

“Because I believed it was wrong, because I believed everyone had a chance to do better.”

“Because you’re a goddamn altar boy.”

“I’m not. Not anymore.”

“Right.” Frank’s voice was too calm now, too low; it was the hospital voice again. Matt hated it. “You know, Karen, Nelson. The nun, too. They told me about it. That it’d happened before. But you came back to god, they said. Or he came back to you, whatever.”

“They told you, huh.” A fresh surge of bitter resentment almost choked him. “He gives, He takes. I’m fed up with it, fed up with _Him_. I don’t care what He wants; I’m not even sure He cares. Or exists.”

“You do. Or you will again.”

“What’s it to you, anyway?”

“What’s it to you that I kill? None of your business.”

“I just…” He didn’t want Frank to go and kill and add those deaths to his ledger; he didn’t want Frank to go and lose his soul and… “I just want – you can do good without hurting yourself.”

“I’m not hurting myself; I’m hurting them.”

“Your soul. You’re hurting your soul.”

“My soul, huh. See? You still care about that shit, Red; you always will. Just let me do what I have to do, be what I’m meant to be.”

“I’m coming with you,” Matt repeated. He was shocked to hear himself; he didn’t sound pissed or at least assertive. He sounded... pathetic.

“You wouldn’t kill them, but they’d kill you. _They_ wouldn't hesitate; you would.”

“I’m hard to kill.”

“Yeah, you are. So you can make sure that drive gets to where it should go, whatever happens; yeah?”

“No. I’m coming with you. If God wants me to die, then I will; I don’t care. I dare Him to kill me!” God wouldn’t. He’d taken his sight, and his father, and Elektra, and – God would keep him alive just to make him suffer, but this time Matt would make sure God didn’t take what was his; he’d fight for it. He’d make sure Frank didn’t kill them all, didn’t kill his own soul. He wouldn’t let God take Frank from him, kill him, damn him; he _wouldn't_. After all Frank had lost, too – Matt wouldn't let God take more. Matt’s breaths were coming quicker, heavier; and he could feel his hands shaking slightly with the sense of urgency flowing through him.

“You’re unhinged, Red. C’mon, let’s sleep. We’ll plan tomorrow.”

“We?”

“Yeah.”

Matt’s heart took its time to slow down but he slept, in the end. Frank’s steady breathing in the next bed over was familiar and reassuring against everything else outside, so far away from New York.

They packed their things in the truck before leaving the motel the next day; they weren’t coming back. Frank parked half a mile from the bar where the Brotherhood cell gathered every Thursday night; from there it was a short walk through a whole lot of nothing, Frank had said. By _nothing_ , he meant going through a field and along a stretch of road; those weren’t Matt’s favorite terrains, but he’d make do. It was cold outside but it was dry, at least; his thermals and the exercise should keep him warm. Hopefully. He hopped down from the truck and took the ropes Frank handed him.

“Bought you some,” Frank said.

“You planned this.”

“Expected it. I know you, Red.” Frank put his vest on and tightened the straps. “Guess you don’t want a gun. Knife?”

“I’m good.”

“You really plan on doing this with just some ropes around your fists.”

“Yeah.”

“I got a second vest.”

“Too heavy. It would slow me down, fuck up my balance.” He quickly folded the bandanna and tied it around his head. “So what’s the plan: go in, shoot kneecaps?”

“I’m not shooting _kneecaps.”_

“Frank…”

“First, I’m going in for a chat, make sure we got the right guys. Get them talking.”

“What about me?” Matt started wrapping the ropes around his hands. Frank could put on a jacket to hide the vest and guns, but the ropes… He couldn't really walk in all casual-like, in that getup.

“You listen. You’re good at that, yeah?”

“And then I _listen_ to you shooting them down?”

“You can hear things I can’t; that’s how you know things you shouldn’t. I need to make sure all of them in there are scum, and that they’re still planning that shooting.”

“What if some aren’t Brotherhood?”

“Then you take those ropes and mask off and you come in. Just… get them out, somehow; you’ll find a way.”

“And _then_ you start shooting?”

“Yeah.”

“What if they’re all Brotherhood?”

“ _Then,_ you keep those ropes and mask on, and you come in.”

Matt smiled. He’d make a big entrance.

Frank was surprisingly good at small talk. He walked in, cool as you please, and ordered a beer at the bar. Crouched between a car and the wall, right under a thin window with crumbling caulk, Matt could hear and smell everything.

As he’d expected after reading the files, there was a strong scent of gunpowder and weapons coming from… probably the storeroom. It came with those of beer, and bread, and meat… foodstuffs. There was a small kitchen, although it was empty now.

Frank chatted with the bartender, who sounded like a big guy who smoked too much; then a couple more people cut in. The woman – _Kelly_ – did she make a pass at Frank? Was she… flirting with him? She was pitching her voice _just so_ , and it was grating on Matt’s nerves.

And… ah, yes, there it was. Hinting at why she and her friends were there together, at whether Frank was welcome or not. Scouting him out. Frank managed to convince them he’d come in because he’d been told he’d find friends in that bar, that his experience in Afghanistan had opened his eyes, yadda, yadda. It worked like a charm.

And from what Matt could gather, everyone else in the bar was there for the Brotherhood meeting. There would be no collateral damage, as Frank would say.

Matt moved away from under the window and stood up from his crouch, brushed his knees, and picked up a tire that had been leaning against the wall. It was heavy enough to knock a guy out after sailing through the window, and Matt jumped in right after.

He had wanted to make a big entrance, after all.

* * *

Red was a fucking idiot do-gooder with a death wish, and Frank was finding it hard not to stop running just so he could wrap his hands around that skinny neck and shake some sense into him. Fine, he’d known altar boy would insist on no killing, fuck up Frank’s shots when he didn’t like where they were aimed, all that shit; but he hadn’t thought he’d go so intense at times he’d forget he wasn’t immune to bullets, either. Sure, he’d never been careful; but this?

They were finally back to the truck and Frank managed not to throw Red inside, but it was close.

“Don’t you ever pull that shit again, Red.” His hands were shaking so much he couldn’t put the key in the ignition on the first try. Or the second. He was _furious_.

“What shit? We’d agreed, no killing. I stopped you when you forgot.”

“A few times, yeah.” They’d said no killing but he’d taken it to mean, no _intentional_ killing. Frank was pretty sure some of them assholes would regret not dying, if they survived. “Then there was that time you stepped in front of a shotgun.”

“She was aiming at you!”

“I know. I’d seen her.”

“Well, clearly you hadn’t, because…”

Frank hit the brakes and grabbed Murdock’s collar. “I know what I’m doing. All right? But you, you clearly don’t. I followed your stupid rule this time, and what do you do? You try to get yourself killed, is what you do!”

“It’s not a stupid rule.”

“I don’t mind killing,” Frank said as slowly as he could to make sure it got through to Mr. Thick Skull, “because I don’t care if I’m killed, as long as I get the job done. Got it?”

“The job’s done, Frank. We called the police; they’ll find enough weaponry there to know they should dig.”

More guns and ammo than you’d need to scare off a curious bear, yeah; and then there was all the literature and fliers. If the cops looked at their phones, they’d find everything; David said so. And maybe the investigation could be sent some more files by an anonymous source. Frank would rather have them dead, but he’d had to compromise with the altar boy around. Not that he wouldn't have rather kept him away, but the damn idiot would have followed somehow and Frank preferred knowing where he was rather than have him drop from the ceiling in the middle of a fight… shit, that’s more or less what he’d just done twenty minutes ago. Who could tell what stupid idea he’d have gotten in his head, anyway?

“You’re not doing that again.”

“Frank…”

“Shut up.” He’d been lucky the rifle had jammed; otherwise Red would be another corpse cooling down in the bar, a big hole in his chest. As it was, the corpse with a hole was Kelly’s and not Red’s, and Frank was fine with that. Her death wouldn't weigh on his conscience.

Frank got back on the road and turned the police scanner on at a low volume; he wanted to know what the cops would do and it was something to fill the silence while Murdock worked on his sulk. Murdock started picking at his ropes and kept quiet for the rest of the drive, and that was absolutely fine by Frank.

Two days later and Frank was still pissed at Red’s idiocy; it was par for the course with the altar boy but still not something Frank wanted to see, ever again. People with a death wish shouldn't fight. Those thoughts were circling and circling in his head, and he couldn't silence them.

The roads were boring, flat and straight and cutting through fields and sometimes a forest and then more fields; the radio stations were all the same, Bible talk and country music and some classic rock before circling back to the Bible. And Red, well; he was either dozing or sulking, hard to say. The glasses hid his eyes, and he wasn’t taking them off these days.

At least it was getting warmer; spring was almost there and they were going south now. Next place they stopped, Frank decided, they’d stay for a few days. They’d put enough miles between the bar hit and themselves, and not spending hours every day in the truck would do them good. Red would probably go back to his fancy poses and kata in the mornings, and Frank himself could do with longer runs.

Yeah, wherever they ended that evening would be their base for a little while.

Next thing he knew, a bull was crossing the road in front of them and then… nothing.

“Frank? Frank, hey! Frank, say something!”

Shit, everything was hurting. “Ugh.”

Tires screeching outside, someone yelling; he found he could move and rubbed his face.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey!” That was a new voice, a woman’s. “Hey, you all right?”

Red opened the door and that was when Frank realized they were in a ditch; Murdock had to do some gymnastics to get out via the broken window. “Yeah, we’re… okay, I think?”

“I’m so sorry, the bull shouldn't have escaped.”

“What bull?”

Frank managed to wiggle out of the driver’s seat and half-slid, half-fell out. “The big angry thing we hit, Red. It was a bull.”

“Pretty big bull too, didn’t you see… oh. Sorry.”

The woman had just seen Red’s cane. Hey, why did he have his cane in his hand? “Don’t worry about it. Oh,” he said, and Frank managed to catch him just before he toppled over the bits of the window he’d apparently broken with his cane.

The woman’s dark eyes widened. “What’s wrong?” Fuck, Karen was going to tear him a new one if he brought Murdock back more banged up than when they’d left.

“Can you get him to my car? I’ll drive you to the clinic, get you checked out. I’ll pay for it; it’s my bull, my responsibility.”

“Nah,” Red said. “Just dizzy, is all.”

Frank stood up. “Yeah, let’s get him seen to.”

“And you,” she said.

“I need to get the truck back on the road.”

“All by your lonesome? Who are you, Captain America?”

Frank shrugged. “Can’t leave it out here.” He didn’t want anyone looking at what was inside, too.

She shook her head and the rings in her hair glinted in the low sunlight. “I’ll send some of my guys with a tractor, they’ll get it out of here and back to the ranch. Look, I’m really… we’ll get it fixed, and I’ll put you up until you’re good to go.”

“Don’t need charity,” Red mumbled from where he was sitting, his folded cane clutched in hand. He looked a little green.

“You got a better idea?”

He hadn’t, or if he had he didn’t say anything. Probably trying not to throw up.

“I’m Jen,” she said.

“Frank. And, uh, Matt.” It was fucking weird to use that name. “Thanks,” he added.

He hadn’t been raised in a barn, after all.

Turned out the doc at the clinic was Jen’s brother-in-law; he pronounced them badly bruised and, in Red’s case, mildly concussed, but otherwise okay. When the doc eyed their scars, Frank just said, “Marines,” and hoped the guy concluded that Red, too, had served. He wouldn't be the first one to lose his eyesight out there, and the doc didn’t push, whatever he suspected.

Jen had been as good as her word; she drove them back to a big ranch and stopped in front of a little bungalow. “I have a few of those that I rent for temp workers or tourists, or that family can use when they visit. This one’s free now; you can stay there for as long as you need to get back on your feet,” she said. “Or you can come to the main house, but maybe you two would like to have some privacy?”

“It’s fine,” Frank said. He eyed the truck that someone had parked in front of the bungalow; there was a smaller car next to it. “Pretty banged up,” he added after looking inside. Nothing seemed to be missing, so he grabbed their two bags and shut the door again. The lock was a bust, and he could only hope no one would be too curious for the time being.

“I’ll have Carl look at it; he’s good with engines. You can use that car while it’s being fixed.”

“You don’t have to, uh.” _Ah, so he speaks,_ Frank thought. Red had kept to Frank’s side since the accident, his hand never leaving Frank’s elbow.

“My bull almost got you killed, so…” She opened the door. “Key’s inside and the fridge is stocked. Call me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Sure, thanks.” She’d given them her number while they’d been at the clinic; Frank had used his Castiglione alias there. They hadn’t asked for papers, which had been a relief. “We’re grateful.”

“Yeah, thanks, Jen.” Murdock managed to be charming in spite of the blood still caked on his face from the busted eyebrow, while Frank looked like some kid’s nightmare with dark red streaked through his beard. Shit, it was going to be hell to clean, and he needed it to help hide his face. Couldn't shave it off yet.

“Thanks for not filing a suit against me,” she said with a wink, and left them to settle.

“That's an idea,” Red said when the door was closed. “Filing a suit.”

“She’s being nice; we don’t have to be assholes.”

“Hm. Dibs on the shower.” Red finally left Frank’s side and aimed straight ahead.

“There’s a wall in front of you.”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” He tapped his cane until he hit the wall, tilted his head this way and that, and finally went right.

“Ears still ringing?”

“Yeah. It’ll pass; not the first time.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Frank followed him out of the kitchenette and lounge into the other room; it was large and had two king beds, a closet, and an en-suite. Nicer than the motels they’d stayed in, for sure.

“Yeah.” Red leaned the cane against the wall by the door and pointed behind Frank. “There’s a window there, right?”

“Big one, yeah. Just… fields, a big carport with some farm equipment, but far enough away. Thin curtains, too.” Red liked his privacy; he’d like that.

“Okay, good.” And then he started stripping with Frank standing right there; Red really wasn’t a prude.

“I’ll go poke at the fridge, yeah?”

But Murdock had already disappeared in the bathroom.

Fine, then.

Red cleaned up after their quick dinner while Frank took his turn in the shower. Once done he gave a swipe to the fogged-up mirror before checking his face, to make sure all the dried blood was out of his beard. It wasn’t very long yet, but it was a bit scratchy and things tended to stick to it like Velcro. Murdock had said it constantly made noises, brushing against his clothes or when he shrugged. Murdock was a delicate flower sometimes. The beard was clean, so he ran a comb through his hair to try and pretend he was a civilized person. Grooming was important; the Marines had drilled that into him. They’d also drilled his preference for short hair and a shaved face, but it sure hid his face more, and that was safer for now. Even if he looked like a fucking hipster.

When he got out of the bathroom, Red was sitting cross-legged on a bed and listening to something on his computer. He only had one earbud in, and he took it out when Frank walked past him to shove his dirty clothes in the washer in the kitchenette.

“You’re all stiff,” he said when Frank came back into the room.

“Huh?”

“You walk like everything hurts.”

“Yeah, well. Truck in the ditch, remember?”

“Hm.” Red got off the bed to stand in front of him, one hand hovering over Frank’s chest. “I think… may I?”

“Sure.” Whatever it was.

What it was, ended up being some sort of exam: Red felt his shoulders, arms, walked around him and did the same to his neck, his back; all the while he kept making little humming noises. It was, Frank decided, pretty fucking weird. “Yeah, I can help.”

“Help?”

But Murdock was already back from the bathroom and throwing a large beach towel on the floor. “Take your clothes off and lie down,” he said.

“The hell?” What the fuck was he on?

“I’ll give you a massage; it’ll help.”

“You’re a masseur now?”

“I have hidden depths. Come on, on your front.”

Frank shrugged. “Fine, then.” What did he have to lose? He took his shirt and sweatpants off.

“And you should take your necklace off.”

“Huh? Oh.” The wedding ring. He undid the clasp and carefully set it on the bedside table. First time he was without it since Pilgrim had given it back, and it made him feel more naked than shucking his clothes had. He lay down on the towel, and after a quick trip to the kitchen Red came back and knelt – huh. He straddled him to more or less sit on his thighs. That was unexpected, but not uncomfortable.

Then, he poured something on his hands that smelled like olive oil, rubbed them together, and started working on Frank’s neck and shoulders. And it was… shit, it was _good_. Red was putting all his weight into it, putting it in his back and his sides and his thighs and his arms and everywhere; he had just enough oil on his hands that they glided smoothly enough without feeling greasy; it was – well, a massage had never felt that good. Frank may have made some embarrassing noises when Murdock dug deep into some tight, coiled muscles, but his higher brain functions were also turning to goo along with the rest of his body, so he didn’t care too much.

“Turn around,” he heard.

“Hm?”

“Turn around, Frank,” and shit, Murdock was laughing at him.

“Shut up,” Frank mumbled, but still he turned over.

Red settled back on his thighs and froze. What – oh, fuck. No, wrong word, absolutely wrong word. “That’s okay,” Red finally said. He put a hand flat on Frank’s chest when he tried to sit up. “No, it’s fine; it’s a normal reaction.”

Normal, his ass – shit. Frank was everything but relaxed now, especially one part of him that Red’s _ass_ was only a few inches away from. And very aware of. They were _both_ very aware of it. Fu – _damn_. “You often give massages to your buddies, Red?”

“Oh, so we’re buddies now.” Shit, Frank wanted to punch that cocky smile off of that smug face. “A… girlfriend taught me,” he finally said. “We used to fight together, too.”

“Is that supposed to help?” Because it really, really wasn’t. Especially when Red lifted his… butt to hover above Frank’s hard-on and started on his shoulders again, a slight frown on his face as he concentrated on what he was doing, and his ass was right over – nope, absolutely not helping.

“Isn’t it?” Murdock’s voice had gone all soft, detached, dreamy almost, as if he wasn’t all there; it was like all he could focus on was what his hands were doing. Maybe it was meditative, for him.

But it definitely wasn’t for Frank, so he put his hands on Red’s to stop him. “No, not really.”

Red blinked and cocked his head. “You’re not happy. You want me to quit?”

“I’m good.” Frank was aware it wasn’t really an answer, so he pushed down on Red’s thighs to make him move away except Red, well. He sat back instead, and now that Frank’s hands were pulling on the fabric of Murdock’s sweatpants, it had become pretty obvious Frank wasn’t the only one affected. “Huh,” Frank said.

“Told you. It happens.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“Get off.”

Red, of course, only grinned wider.

“Don’t say it.”

“All right.”

“Don’t even think it.”

“Hm. _Harder_ to do.”

Frank showed his teeth, but of course that asshole wouldn’t see it. “We’re done here.”

“But I’m not sure you’re as relaxed as you can be; I don’t feel like my _job_ is done here.”

Okay, that was it. Frank had had enough. He bucked to shove Murdock off of him, but that little eel slithered away before Frank could pin him down and… and… yeah, whatever. They weren’t supposed to fight, so. It was fine. He could hear Murdock putting the bottle of oil back in its rack and washing his hands in the kitchen sink so he stood up, put his shirt and pants back on, and bunched up the towel he’d been lying on. It smelled a little like olive oil, and he was tempted to shove it under Red’s bed just so he’d be annoyed by it all night long; but Red hadn’t seemed particularly bothered by their, by what had happened.

 _Man up_ , Frank told himself, and he marched to the kitchenette holding the towel in front of him like a fucking teenager. Then, he remembered he wasn’t a teenager, that Red was blind, and that he already knew anyway. He stuffed the towel in the washer and stuck his hands in his pockets, then took them out when it put too much pressure _somewhere_.

“Need a hand?” Red asked.

“Think you’re funny?”

“Don’t tell me it never happened when you were…” He waved a hand near his temple, still wet from the sink. A drop landed on Frank’s nose; he ignored it. That was a shitty salute if he’d ever seen one.

“Marines don’t spend their days giving each other massages.”

“Look, I grew up in an orphanage, then I lived in college dorms. You’re not going to make me believe it never happened in a bunch of horny twenty-somethings.”

Maybe, but Frank wasn’t going to admit it. “I haven’t been twenty-something in a good long while, Red.”

“Fine. Need me to get out for a while, so you can…?” More, suggestive hand-waving. _Jesus_.

“ _No_. Where’s the laundry soap?”

Murdock opened a cupboard under the sink and handed him the bottle, and the incident was behind them after that. Not out of their – not out of Frank’s, at least – minds, but then they set the clothes to wash, Red put his laptop and his Braille reader on the kitchen table, and Frank turned the TV on with the sound off. The subtitles were enough, and they wouldn't bother Red. Frank focused on some show about dogs, one eye on the subtitles and one on Murdock, who seemed to have put it all behind him. His lips were moving as he typed or read with his fingertips; he looked like he was preparing some speech. Some lawyer stuff, again.

Frank tore his eyes away to focus on the dogs; whatever Murdock did wasn’t as interesting. It wasn’t interesting _at all_ , and Frank much preferred watching the dogs. Then one of the dogs found a fucking bone, and Frank changed the channel. He liked cooking shows better, yeah.

* * *

When Matt woke up, Frank was already somewhere outside. Matt stretched and sighed, letting his limbs fall back, heavy and slow, on the mattress. He’d meditated a bit to help with the burn in his muscles after the tumble they took in the truck and gotten up early for a bit of extra stretching before going back to bed, but he could still feel it. He wondered how Frank felt, after – well, after. Matt had done good work on his back and shoulders especially, but he hadn’t finished; and when it had become obvious that they were both hard, well. Frank had freaked out, and Matt wasn’t sure why. He’d been… embarrassed, somehow. But he’d also felt warm under Matt’s hands, and strong too; his body was scarred but all the old, and less old, injuries were testimony to how unstoppable Frank really was. Or was it unmovable? It was something good, anyway. Something reliable.

And then, there had been all the noises he’d made: the sighs, and the groans when Matt had pushed in harder on a particular knot, and his little shuddery inhales when Matt’s fingers had skimmed on a ticklish bit of skin. He’d sounded so human… and he’d probably hate that thought.

But then, of course, he’d freaked out, and afterward they’d pretended nothing at all had happened. And it had been _nothing_ , really; there was no reason to react like that, no reason to be so embarrassed. They could have laughed it off, right? But they hadn’t because Matt hadn’t been able to help himself: he’d made it worse by teasing Frank about it, and now it was all… absolutely not weird at all. Nope.

A loud noise of metal on metal jostled him out of his thoughts, and Matt listened. Frank was outside with someone else, another guy; they were banging on… the truck, sounded like.

“Looks like _that’s_ busted. So, boyfriend sleeping in?” Mystery Guy said.

There was a very Frank grunt as his only answer.

“He’s cute; good catch, man.”

“When did you even see him?” More clanging; Matt wondered if they were dismantling the truck.

“Eh, early this morning, when I went to check on the cows about to calve. He was doing some sort of routine on the bungalow porch, like yoga or some shit, then when I got back here I saw him do some crazy kung-fu shit. You’re lucky; he’s pretty limber.” There was a slap, as if Mystery Guy had patted Frank’s back or something. Sounded like the back, not the shoulder or the head.

“He went out this morning? _Kung-fu shit?_ ” Oops.

“Yeah! Didn’t know you learned that in the Marines too, but good for him to keep it up after, you know.” Matt could fill in: after he got blind. Well, little did Mystery Guy know, right? “But he was doing it in the yard here; he wouldn't have hurt himself on anything, don’t worry. It’s empty, apart from your truck and the car.”

Matt sat up and set his feet on the floor; of course he wouldn’t have hurt himself.

“Kung-fu shit,” Frank repeated.

Huh, he was pissed; Matt didn’t need to hear his heart-rate go up. But hey, Frank’s new friend didn’t seem to think it too strange that a blind guy would do _Kung-fu shit_ , so there was no need, right?

“Carl,” Frank said.

“Yeah?”

“Whatever that asshole does…”

“Yeah?” Carl prompted when Frank stopped.

“Nothing. I don’t care; I’m not his keeper.”

“Never said you were.” There was a loud screeching noise and a heavy thump. “There, that’s out. I’m gonna find a new part for your truck, pretty sure there’s one lying around somewhere.”

“Thanks.”

“You and the boyfriend should go back on your honeymoon road trip thing, right?”

“We’re not… we’re not.”

“Not on a honeymoon?”

“Not boyfriends.”

“Wait, really?”

“Gimme that wrench, willya?” Wow, Frank was really not happy. _Well, he never was_ , Matt thought, maybe a bit uncharitably. Eh, he’d add a few more Hail Marys to his daily prayers as penance.

“Here you go. No, but, _really_? Because if you’re not, then _I_ am going to tap that ass. Or, well, try to. Guy’s hot, you know?” Matt smiled; he could almost hear Foggy grumbling something about _handsome wounded ducks_.

“Wheels aren’t parallel anymore.”

“Frank my man, you look real scary right now; if you want to go for it you got dibs, all right?”

“The fuck you talking about?”

“You look like you want to stick that wrench in my gut.” Matt couldn't say anything about what Frank looked like but that would definitely be a Frank move; Carl had pinned him down well.

“That’s because you talk too much.”

“Nah, only since I said I wanted to tap that ass. And what an ass, amirite?” Some shuffling, a few creaks; Matt focused and realized they were lifting the truck, maybe to check those wheels? He didn’t know anything about cars. “Look, you repressed or something?”

“He’s the Catholic one.” Aw, low blow, Frank.

Matt finally stood up and padded to the kitchenette; he got the coffee maker working while keeping an ear on that conversation outside. Carl kept trying to determine if Frank was, or not, interested in Matt’s ass, and Frank kept deflecting and occasionally telling Carl to fuck off, which only seemed to encourage the guy. Matt liked him already. He found a few mugs in a kitchen cabinet, some milk in the fridge, sugar on the counter, and put everything on a tray before walking outside.

“Hey guys, I hear you’re working hard at this. Coffee?” He stood right in front of the door and pretended he didn’t know exactly where they were, and soon enough Carl took the bait.

“Hi, uh, Matt, right? I’m Carl.”

“Hi yourself,” Matt said and aimed a carefully crafted - a little bit coy, a little bit flirty – smile at Carl. He held out the tray and added, “Uh, mind helping me with this?”

“Oh, sure, yeah, let me take it and, uh, do you need to… hold my arm? Is that a thing you do? I’m sorry, I don’t know, is that okay?”

Matt smiled a bit wider and took Carl's elbow as soon as the tray was out of his hands. “It absolutely is, Carl, thanks.”

Carl led him to the truck before putting the tray on the other car’s hood. “Damn, coffee, milk, and sugar – you’re a godsend!” Matt preened. “All the folks here have it black, no one ever thinks of poor me and what _I_ like!”

“Well, _I_ care,” Matt replied. Then he ran a hand along the truck until he found the door, opened it, and very carefully bent forward at what he hoped was a good angle. Both Carl’s and Frank’s heartbeats picked up, although Frank’s was probably in annoyance and Carl's, hopefully, for another reason. “Hey Frank, did you ever find my glasses?”

“No.”

Matt straightened up and sighed. “Well, too bad. I liked them.”

“You don’t even know what they looked like.”

“I _liked_ them, Frank.”

“Hey, don’t be such an asshole to the guy!” Thanks, Carl. “Look, I gotta hit the stores in town this afternoon, I can take you along if you'd like? Say, around 3? We can go find you new ones.”

“Aw, that would be fantastic! At least I still have the cane, but people are often weirded out by, you know.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “And it’s a warning, too; a _step away, blind guy coming_ , kind of thing.”

“Really? Nothing to be weirded out about, if you ask me. And I’ll only step away if you want me to.”

“I’ll let you know if I ever do, Carl.”

Frank’s whispered “ _I’m_ the asshole?” was icing on the cake, really.

Matt left them to their manly bonding and banging to call Foggy about the case he’d read the night before and schedule some legal counseling appointments on the phone for the next few days. He had a shower, shaved, hoped his hair was behaving itself, and picked some nice jeans that Karen had said made his ass look good (yes, he was vain). He had, after all, kind of a date this afternoon, and he didn’t see why he couldn’t really enjoy it.

Right?

But then the futility of it all slapped him in the face. He lay down on the couch and put his head on the same cushion Frank had used last night, just to see if he could still smell him. Why should he lead Carl on? The guy seemed decent and generally cheerful, but Matt… He and Frank were just passing through, and they were lying about who they were: violent men with violent pasts. And violent presents. He could never tell Carl who he really was, what he could really do; maybe that didn’t matter so far from New York but then again, Matt was never going to settle down anywhere that was not New York, anyway. It was in his veins, warm and acidic at the same time, eating him from the inside and giving him a reason to live on, too.

The door opened and closed. “What are you moping about now?”

“I’m not moping.”

“You’re going all Victorian maiden on the couch.” Matt didn’t answer, so Frank went to wash up in the bathroom before going back to the sitting room and kitchenette. “Hungry?”

“I’m fine.”

“Think Carl will buy you dinner?” Frank started putting a sandwich together.

“He’s just taking me to buy new glasses.”

“I know you heard him this morning.” Matt didn’t deny it. “You should get condoms too, this afternoon.”

“I don’t – it’s not like that.”

“Yes, it is.” Frank didn’t seem too bothered by the idea, which was an unwelcome change from the morning. Why wasn’t he? Matt wanted him to be. Selfishly.

“I’m not going to have sex with Carl.”

“He likes you, and you flirted with him.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Yeah? Why?” Frank sat at the counter and started on his sandwich.

“What are you, my shrink? My priest?”

“Fuck no.” Frank swallowed and waited for Matt to explain. He could be patient like a rock, when he wanted to.

“It’s just stupid.” More silence; Frank had even stopped eating. “We’re going to leave here in a few days, then go back to New York; what’s the point?”

“Just having a good time, Red. I know you’re Catholic but enjoying yourself isn't forbidden.”

“I’m not sure the Church would approve of that kind of good time.”

“Yeah, well. Does it approve of you punching teeth in at night?” Matt shrugged. “Yeah, thought so. You’re not getting married, Red.”

“I can’t even… what’s the point? I can’t be myself. I can’t even take off my shirt without people thinking – I don’t know what they’re thinking. But Foggy says I have more scars than skin, and how do I explain that?”

“That doesn’t make sense. Scars are skin.”

“Frank…”

“Everybody here thinks you were in the Marines. Roll with it.”

“It’s a lie.”

“And?”

“I’ve lied too much.”

Frank sighed. “And _now_ it’s a problem?”

“I don’t want that. I don’t want that, in a… relationship.”

“Oh, so now it’s a _relationship_?”

“No!” Matt shook his head. “I just want… I want to be known.”

“Biblically?”

Matt threw the pillow at Frank’s head and turned the TV on. He refused to think about it any longer, and whatever would happen or not happen, he didn’t care.

The town wasn’t that big and there weren’t that many places where one could get glasses, but Carl was patient and helped him pick ones that would do, if not the same as his round, red ones. He’d asked Foggy to see if he could find them online and order a pair, but in the meantime the squarish pair was good enough, if not quite on-brand for Matt Murdock.

“Thanks, Carl,” he said as they left the shop. “Pretty sure my clients will be more comfortable with those.”

“Clients?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a firm with my partner; we’re defense attorneys. He’s still in New York, but we do video-calls pretty often. I don’t mind doing it only on the phone, but a lot of people prefer to see who they’re talking to, so…”

“You keep saying you have to cover your eyes but… you don’t _have_ to, you know? They’re nice.”

“Thank you. I’m sure yours are real fine and also, _they_ work.” Matt grinned.

“Well, that’s how I could drive you here,” Carl replied. He was smiling, too. “So, uh, I saw you this morning.”

“Can’t say the same.”

“What – really? Blind jokes?”

“They’re the best.”

“Wow, if I'd known you were that way…” Carl’s voice was amused as he steered them across the street. “But hey, since you’re a lawyer, you should talk to Jen; she needs one. Her aunt’s ex-husband is trying to basically steal the ranch from under her, and it’s a real…”

Matt heard the car’s tires screeching first, and he had just enough time to push Carl aside before it crashed into the building they’d been walking to.

“Holy shit,” Carl said.

“You all right?”

“Yeah! You pushed me out of the way just in time, man, holy shit, how did you – ”

“Is there anyone inside the car?” There was, but he wasn’t supposed to know that. Matt didn’t want Carl to ask too many questions, not right now.

“There’s a woman that – hey, ma’am!”

Matt sighed and concentrated on cooling down from hyper-awareness back to his regular blind guy persona, outwardly at least. The brakes had failed and she’d lost control of the vehicle, she said; it was lucky that the car itself and a shop window were the only casualties. The sheriff got there quickly, taking everyone’s name and number, but soon enough Carl and Matt managed to escape.

“Well, that was something,” Carl said. “Shit, that’s not how I’d wanted the day to go.”

Mat shrugged. “Cars going crazy… it’s everyday life in New York, you know.”

“Right. So that’s how you knew what was coming and where?”

“I didn’t; it was chance.”

“Uh huh.” Carl let him to the SUV’s door and walked around to get to the driver’s seat. “So this morning, I saw you do… kung-fu, or something,” he went on once they were in the SUV.

“It’s not kung-fu, but yeah, I practice kata.”

“What is it then, karate?”

“It’s, um, a bit of everything. I trained in a lot of different styles.”

“When you were in the Marines?”

“It was a while ago, yeah. I kept the habit.”

“So do you have… super senses?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Like, martial arts old guys in movies, you know? Is that how you knew about the car?”

 _Fuck_. “Uh, sort of? We’re trained to be always aware of our surroundings, and when I heard the car I just, you know.”

“That’s really cool!”

Carl started the engine, and Matt sighed. He couldn't let Carl come too close; he couldn't let _anyone_ too close. Not if they didn’t know who he really was, anyway, and that was too dangerous; Frank’s _carpe diem_ advice was just plain wrong. He let Carl's words wash over him, talking about his work at the ranch, his favorite niece’s quinceañera, Jen’s extended family, and her brother, who was one of the few black bull riders in the state.

“Jen’s black?”

“Yeah? I mean, right, you’re blind. Most of us here who work for her, we’re not white. And quite a few are undocumented, too. She said it was a family tradition, that she had ancestors in the Underground Railroad, you know? That she couldn't do any less. So, uh, here we are.”

“Are _you_ undocumented?”

“Um.”

“That’s my job, you know, back in New York. That’s why I became a lawyer: because I wanted to help.”

“It’s just… you know, that guy who wants to get the ranch from her? We’re the reason. He hates our guts, and he wants us out of here. He doesn’t give a damn about the ranch.”

“I see.”

The SUV bumped over the gravel that led to the main buildings, and finally Carl stopped. “We’re here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kill the mood.”

“You didn’t; you’ve given me purpose.”

“That’s not quite I was going for,” Carl said.

“Yeah, I know. But for what it’s worth, I had a good time. Apart from almost being crushed to death by a car,” he added with a smile.

“Okay, fine, me too.” He took the key from the ignition but didn’t get out. “So, uh. There’s an indoor rodeo here in a couple weeks; Jen’s brother will compete. And I know you can’t see it, but there's also music, and food, and beer, and you know, it’s nice. If you’re still here, I mean, and you want to come.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to one.” He was tempted, but he didn't want to give Carl false hopes.

“I’m not… not as a date, okay? No pressure. We’re probably all going, you know. And Frank, he’d like it, right?”

“I’ll ask him, but I guess so, yeah.”

“Maybe it can be a date, for you and him.”

“We’re not dating!”

“Look, if you’re not going to have a one-night stand with _me_ , then I’m going to make damn sure that ass on you sees some action one way or another.”

Matt felt his cheeks heat up. “I don’t think Frank’s really into it.”

“The way he was trying to kill me with his eyes this morning when I made a pass at you? He absolutely is.”

“I think he always looks like that; that’s what everybody says.”

“Nah, he only looked grumpy before. _After_ , he looked murderous. So go get some, yeah?”

Matt smiled. It wasn’t going to happen, but Carl’s enthusiasm and goodwill were pretty sweet. “I’m going to focus on doing my job for you first, okay? I’m not licensed to practice here, but I can definitely… give information.” He should look into how to get permission to appear _pro hac vice_ here; he thought he remembered it wasn’t too bad in Ohio. “And maybe later I could even represent you.”

“Fine. Just don’t forget me when you’re sending out the wedding invites!” Carl yelled out of the window when Matt was almost at the door.

“You look happy,” Frank said when he closed it behind him.

“Don’t I always?”

“No.” Frank took the glasses straight from his face and dropped them on the table. “They’re ugly.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Hm. How was your date, then?”

“Not a date. And a car tried to run us over, but we’re fine.”

“Ha.” Frank sounded amused. “Nothing unusual, then.”

Matt took his jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair. “Nah. Carl said there’s a rodeo here at the end of the month; he said we should come.”

“We won’t be here by then.”

“I’d like to; I said I’d help Jen with some legal stuff. Might need more than a couple days.”

“Bleedin’ heart.”

“I can help, Frank.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Frank’s voice softened. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

He went out of the bungalow and Matt stood there, wondering if Frank had meant he couldn't help wanting to help or if he couldn't help himself. Or, he wondered, maybe both.

Frank spent most of his days doing whatever it was one did in a ranch and would probably say he wasn’t avoiding Matt, even if it felt like it. Jen was growing things in fields, things that Matt didn’t really know anything about unless they were food to be bought, so he just assumed there was plenty for Frank to do and left it at that. Between reading up on Jen’s situation, figuring out her employees’ issues, getting the authorization to practice in Ohio, and the hours he dedicated to Nelson and Murdock, the days were full. Carl showed him the makeshift gym where most of the ranch people worked out, so Matt also went there a few hours every night. Hitting a bag always made his thoughts clearer.

Carl also came for a chat most afternoons; they had coffee and usually talked about life on the ranch. Matt redirected the conversation every time Carl tried to ask about being a Marine; Carl took the hint soon enough. He probably thought it was a painful reminder of his accident, however he imagined it; as long as it worked Matt didn’t really care. Carl told him instead about his best (or worst, depending on how you saw them) dating adventures, and asked about Matt’s own job as a defense attorney in New York.

It was pleasant, right until the moment when Carl set his coffee back on the table and said, “Look, have you ever ridden? A horse, I mean.”

“…not a horse, no.”

“Wanna try? There’s this horse here, Bella, she’s sweet and slow and a little dumb, but really super safe. What do you say?”

“I, uh. I’m not sure…”

“You can’t stay on a ranch and not ride a horse even just once, man. Especially if you’re not riding that manly man you’re somehow _still_ not climbing like a tree.”

Matt grinned. “ _You_ can go climb him like a tree, if you like him so much.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not me he wants climbing him, if you get me.”

“I really don’t know why you think that. I, uh, don’t _see_ it.”

“I swear to God, Matt…” He lightly punched Matt’s shoulder.

“Hitting a blind guy, now? That’s low, really low.”

“I’ll quit telling you to make a move on him if you come ride Bella.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear, your Honor.”

“I’m not a judge!”

“Eh, same difference. I’ll come by tomorrow morning at 9, all right?”

“With Bella?”

“Yup.”

“You won’t take no for an answer, right?”

“Nope.”

“Well, all right then.”

Matt deemed it extra prudent to call Maggie and ask her to light a candle for him that evening, just in case. Couldn’t hurt, at any rate.

“A horse,” Frank said the next morning. He’d just come back from his morning run and his heart was louder than usual in Matt’s ears. “Carl’s taking you to ride a horse.”

“Well, why not?”

“Don’t worry, Frank; I’ll bring him back in one piece!”

“You break it, you buy it.”

“Hey, I’m not a, a… a vase!”

Carl snickered. “I promise I won’t damage him,” he said.

“Pretty sure he can manage that on his own.” Frank turned to get in the bungalow but stopped to add, “Wear a helmet, Red,” before going in and closing the door behind himself.

“Aw, he’s worried! Anyway, I brought you some gear, boots and yes, a helmet, to start with. Uh, to your right.”

Matt put it all on and bounced on his feet to see how the boots fit. “All right, I’m ready.”

“How does the helmet feel? Not too loose or too tight? You shouldn’t – I mean, I guess you know how a helmet should feel, sorry.”

Well yeah, but not for the reason Carl thought. “It’s fine; let’s do this.”

“Hey, it’s going to be fun! I’m going to lead you to the horse and show you what’s what, okay?”

“Sure.”

Carl was as good as his word; he took Matt’s hand and set it on various parts of the equipment, describing what it was for and how it worked; saddle and bridle, stirrups and reins… Matt filed it all in his memory and wondered if it would feel anything like that time when Elektra had taken him on a wild motorbike ride. Probably not, he thought, but it had been fun. Including – especially – when the police had given them chase.

After a few minutes, Matt decided he’d gotten the hang of it. Bella was indeed a quiet horse, and she let him fidget and squirm until he was in a position that Carl deemed good enough to start on the ride. She seemed to know where to go and followed Carl's horse meekly, and the first part of the outing was nice enough. The weather was pleasant, Carl was talking about the upcoming rodeo, Bella was walking peacefully, and Matt was… well, he wasn’t finding it exciting, but it was good to be outside.

“Can we try going faster?”

“Absolutely not! You’ve been on a horse for like half an hour now so you’re not, absolutely not, going any faster than you are now! Are you insane?”

“Well, it’s not that hard, is it?”

“You’re – okay, you’re doing well, but this is your first time and you’re doing well _for your first time_ and… no, don’t do that with your heels, are you insane?”

No he wasn’t, and also Bella was going a bit faster and trotting ahead of Carl and Pirate now, which was much better. Matt trusted her to be his eyes and know where to go; this was her home, after all. Sadly, Carl didn’t appreciate Matt’s little experiment and quickly caught Bella’s reins to slow her down.

“Okay, I get why Frank said what he said.”

“About what?”

Carl ignored him. “That was a stupid, reckless thing to do; you should know better!”

“I’m sorry,” Matt tried. He wasn’t, but Carl sounded genuinely upset. “I didn’t think Bella would speed up.” Well, he’d _hoped_ she would, but he assumed that wasn’t what Carl wanted to hear.

“I think you did. You’re not suicidal, are you?”

Matt could well imagine what Foggy would say to that. “I am a responsible adult most of the time,” he replied with a smile that was going for charmingly cocky.

Carl huffed, but finally let Bella’s reins go. “Well, responsible adults take the time to master all steps before moving on to a new one. I’m glad none of the kids saw that; I take them on long rides in the summer and I keep trying to hammer those safety rules in their heads and I swear, it’s like they got more holes than a sieve in them.”

“But where’s the fun in following the rules?”

“You can’t say that to kids!”

“I don’t know, that’s how I learn most stuff, you know? Been thrown off of roofs from an early age.”

“Not literally, I hope,” Carl replied. He sounded calmer now, like he was smiling.

“Well, it’s the landing that’s tricky, you know?”

“Right. Well, try not to fall from the horse, okay? Don’t want to bring you back to Frank in parts; pretty sure he’d kill me.”

“Aw, I’m sure he wouldn't hurt you too much.”

“He’d go for dismemberment, you mean!”

The path led them to a river where a bend had shallow, slow-moving water. They took a break there; Carl talked him through getting down from the horse and Matt showed him some of his kata. He bit on his tongue when Carl tried it; he could sense the mistakes he made but he couldn't reveal that he did, even if he really wanted to. They ate some snacks Carl had packed in his saddlebags, and after checking all the gear was in its right place and securely fastened they started on the way back.

The sun was higher, and while it was still very early spring it was almost warm; there was a buzzing around that came from a bunch of insects that followed them and seemed to irritate the horses; Carl’s kept swishing his tail left and right and even Bella’s flanks twitched and shuddered.

“There are horseflies around here; it’s a bit early for them but it’s been warm lately. Hope they won’t bother us.”

“Or bite us.”

“Yeah, no.”

Matt let the sounds of nature around them fill his ears, the smell of horse and the smell of earth fill his nose. All of these had become less alien over the last few weeks; he’d been thoroughly freaked out by their unfamiliarity at first but he’d grown used to them. Used to them, and maybe too complacent – Bella suddenly neighed, shook her head, and then bucked. Matt held on for dear life; he had no idea what to hang on to and Carl’s shouts didn’t really help. What was he supposed to do? Bella started to run, stopped, tried to throw him down, bucked again; she felt terrified under him and he wasn’t going to last more than a few seconds, at best. Finally, he went for it – he pushed on her shoulders and vaulted over to the side, Olympic gymnast-style. If they still did it like he remembered watching on TV as a kid, of course.

“Shit, Matt, you all right? That was some – whoa, Bella, just…”

Matt shut Carl out and sat on the soft earth, his back to a tree. That had been… unexpected. He hoped Carl wouldn’t find his improvised dismount too suspicious for a blind guy, but it had really felt like the only way to make (mostly) sure he didn’t end up too injured was to take matters in his own hands and jump off and away before Bella threw him off and trampled him. But it had also been exhilarating, and Matt had missed that – that rush of adrenaline when you didn’t quite know if you’d live or die in the next few seconds.

That, he thought, was what life was all about… not that he’d tell Carl about it, of course.

“Okay, I think she’s mostly calmed down, but I don’t – hey, you alright?”

Matt climbed to his feet and listened to Bella’s heartbeat. Yes, it had slowed down, although she wasn’t yet as calm as before. He could hear her huff and fidget. “I’m fine, yeah. What happened?”

“Eh, probably got bitten by a horsefly. Say, that was a really impressive jump you did earlier; you kept a cool head, too.” Was there some suspicion in Carl’s voice?

“Um, didn’t really think about it.” Matt tried to play it down; he hadn't done anything any athletic guy couldn't have, surely. Even a blind one, or so he hoped.

“Well, you got the right idea, anyway. I’m not sure I want you back on Bella right now, though; she’s still acting a bit spooked.” Carl tapped his shoulder. “Take my hand and hop on behind me, yeah? There’s a big rock to your left you can climb on.”

“Behind you?”

“Yeah, we’ll ride double, that’s fine; Pirate here’s sturdy enough for us two. Just hold on to me, and tell me if you feel you’re slipping off, okay?”

And that was how Matt ended up riding back to the bungalow with both arms wrapped around Carl’s middle. He tried not to think too hard about the strong back he could feel against his own chest, the slightly padded, solid body he was, for all intents and purposes, hugging. It sharply reminded Matt of how much he missed it – the closeness, the intimacy of spending time right against someone he wanted. It was a bittersweet feeling, because while he certainly liked Carl, he didn’t _want_ him, not like Carl wished he did.

Frank was still in front of the bungalow when they got back, this time banging at something inside the truck.

“How’s it going, Frank?” Carl asked.

“Almost done.” Matt heard the click of Frank’s knees when he stood up. “Why’s Red on your horse?”

“Well, you told me to bring him back unharmed, and his horse got spooked.”

“It looks fine to me now.”

“She’s calmed down, yeah. But hey, I don’t mind riding double with him.” Carl leaned back a bit into Matt. “And I gotta say, Matt’s got nice arms and pecs, yeah? You’re like, all muscle, man; I’ve definitely enjoyed that ride. Looking forward to more, if you’re in the mood.”

“I feel like you’re winking at me,” Matt replied.

“You can bet I am! But Frank’s here looking all murderous again, so I’ll just take the horses back to the barn and leave you to your work, okay?”

“Sure.” Matt slid off Pirate and untied the helmet before holding it out to Carl. “And thanks; you were right, I had fun!”

“Fun,” Frank grumbled once Carl was riding away. “Sure.”

“What’s wrong with having some fun?”

“Nothing. You go have fun with Carl. I’ll have this engine fixed soon, then we can leave. Unless you’d rather stay with Carl.”

“Do you think it’ll be fixed in time for the rodeo this weekend?”

“You still want to go?”

“Well, I liked it when Bella started bucking and trying to throw me off, so I guess it’s even better when it’s bulls, you know?”

“The horse tried to – and Murdock, you’re aware the public isn’t riding the bulls, right?”

“I’d like to try.”

“You are not, under any circumstances, going to ride a bull.”

“Why not? People do it.”

“ _Trained people_ do it, and Karen would kill me.”

“You know what, Frank? You’re no fun.”

Matt turned away and got in the bungalow to shower all the horse smell away so it didn’t distract him while he worked, but he still heard Frank’s “ _I’m_ no fun, huh? Bet fucking _Carl_ is.”

The knowledge that Frank was annoyed buoyed Matt for the rest of the day.

When Saturday arrived, Matt felt like a kid on Christmas – well, not like he’d been as a kid on Christmas, but like how other kids were supposed to be. Christmas, for him, had been a quiet affair with his dad. He wondered what kind of memories Frank had, if his own kids had been the kind to wake him up early, to tear into the wrappings or to carefully peel it off after guessing what it was. Right now, Matt wanted to be there already; he was pretty sure he could find a way to sneak into the bullpen and try and see if he could stay on a bull for more than a second or two. He felt confident he could, and maybe they’d have an amateur contest? He’d go without the cane or glasses and act sighted, of course; they wouldn’t know he wasn’t.

He pulled a baseball hat low over his eyes to hide them and hoped the ranch people wouldn't think it weird he was going sans cane and glasses today.

“No,” Frank said when he saw him.

“No what?”

“No, you’re not going like that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. People here know you now; you can’t go around thinking they won’t recognize you, even without your cane.”

“But…”

“And no one’s going to let you ride a bull, even if they thought you were sighted.”

“But it sounds fun!”

“Just take your fucking cane, Red.”

Matt snatched it from the table, still folded, and stalked to the truck without even pretending he didn’t know exactly where it was. Fuck this flying under the radar thing; he wanted to ride a bull and he would, one way or another.

* * *

Red sulked all the drive to the fields where they’d mounted the temporary structures for the rodeo and fair, twisting his cap this way and that in his hand before throwing it on the dashboard midway through the trip.

“We’re here,” Frank said once he’d parked.

“I know.”

Yeah, well. Frank was only trying to make conversation. He could guess it was weighing on Red, always having to pretend. He’d seen him do it before, passing as a sighted guy; but it was a fine line to walk in a regular setting. And dangerous. There was really no need to expose himself there, but he was in one of those manic moods he had sometimes when he got an idea in his head and wouldn't budge from it. And since he’d learned about the rodeo, he’d gotten stuck on the bull-riding. Frank appreciated how fearless Murdock could be, but he also appreciated the sheer stupidity of his plan.

They got out of the truck and Frank looked around. In the large field, there were plenty of stalls with food and carnival games; there was also a stage where a country band was doing sound checks.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Beer?”

Red’s head tilted; he was listening for something. The bulls, maybe. Probably. “Hm.”

“Red, no. You know you can’t.”

“Carl’s helping with the horses,” he said.

“Want to find him?”

“He’s busy.”

Which wasn’t an answer, but Frank wasn’t really in the mood to play matchmaker, so. He looked around. “There's that ladder game.”

“What ladder game? Like, chutes and ladders?”

“No; it’s a rope ladder you have to climb and then hit a bell at the top.”

“Uh. I’ve never really been to a fair; I don’t know what to expect.”

“Wait, never? What about Coney Island? Same kind of booths and games.”

“Well, my dad never took me and then, well.” He shrugged. “It just never happened.”

“Right.” Something had to be done, clearly. Frank had loved those when he’d been a boy himself, and he’d taken Maria and the kids as often as he could. “Let’s start with the ladder; there's a small one for kids and a bigger one for adults.”

Murdock’s lips twitched. “Adults? Oh, count me in.”

“Pretty sure I’m faster than you on one of those. It’s basic boot camp stuff.”

Oh yeah, he’d redirected Red’s competitive streak from bulls to games; he could see it in his grin. “You’re sure, eh?”

“Absolutely. You’re on, Castle.”

And oh boy, wasn’t he. The guy manning the booth looked at the white cane and opened his mouth to say something stupid, but Frank glared at him before he could put his foot in it.

“Time us,” Frank said.

“Well, the game is…”

“First one to reach the last rung wins.”

“The bell…”

“I can’t see the bell, but just shout when it’s the last rung and I’ll know.”

“Um…”

“Good talk.” Frank took off his jacket and gave it to Murdock to hold, rolled up his sleeves, and put a hand on the ladder. “So the ladder goes up, then you have to change sides because it’s at an angle, then again when it’s a sort of bridge, then straight up to the finish. About 15 feet high, and there’s a net under it if you fall.”

“I won’t fall.”

“So you say. Try and beat my time if you can.”

And then he rushed up the ladder, just like he used to back when he’d been a wet-behind-the-ears Marine. Up and up, then swing around, up, across, and up; he heard people cheering him when he reached the last rung.

“Eight seconds!” The guy called out. Well, not Frank’s best, but he’d also wanted to make sure Red could follow his progress to get an idea of the route. That, and a couple rungs slipped under his feet; he wasn’t rusty or anything. He let himself fall into the net and got back to the starting point.

“Your turn.”

Red dumped Frank’s jacket, his own, and the cane in Frank’s arms and almost stepped all by himself to the bottom of the ladder before catching himself and remembering he wasn’t supposed to know how to find it.

“Three steps in front of you.”

“Right, thanks.”

Red stepped forward, cracked his neck, and shimmied up that rope ladder like the monkey he was.

“Woohoo, seven seconds! You win, sir!”

The people who’d gathered to watch how the blind guy would do broke into applause and whistled, and Murdock grinned and waved down.

“Get down from there, now,” Frank said in a low voice. He knew Red would hear him.

“I beat you, Frank!”

Yeah, yeah. He watched Murdock let go and fall into the net and tried not to laugh at the people gasping; if they’d known what kind of shit he got up to in New York… not seeing what he was doing never was a problem. There was color on his cheeks when he took back his cane, but Frank wasn’t sure if it was the short bout of exercise or the comments he could hear around about: _Isn’t that the blind lawyer that’s staying at Jen’s ranch_ , and _I didn’t know he had a boyfriend_ , and _I heard they’re former Marines, heard that’s it’s where he got, you know, blind_. Frank tried to ignore them as he took the tickets for free hot dogs they’d won, and steered them away from that game and the little crowd that had gathered.

“I won!” Red said. He’d stuck his hand back on Frank’s elbow, looking all smug and happy.

“I let you win.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Whatever. “You any good at darts?”

“I’m better than good.”

“That right?”

“Uh huh.”

So Frank aimed for a booth where you had to throw darts at balloons and gave a quick description of the game before coming to the counter. The girl at the booth gave Frank five darts, and he cleared his throat.

“What about his?”

“Well, he’s, you know.”

“I’m blind, you mean?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So?”

“It’s, um, dangerous?”

“What, you think I’m going to throw them behind me?”

“But you can’t… see?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Red gave her the kind of grins he usually reserved for assholes he was about to beat up, and Frank sighed.

“Just give him his damn darts, yeah?”

When it was their turn and the girl had replaced the popped targets, Frank stood behind Murdock and looked at the dozen or so balloons on the wall a few feet ahead.

“You start,” Red said, leaning back a little. “Let me feel where you're throwing them, all right?” He was probably trying to unbalance Frank, putting his weight on him like that. Wouldn’t work.

“Fine.” Frank made each dart count and burst five, even though he could see the girl turning up the fan to the side that made the balloons move around so they’d be harder to hit. She wasn’t too happy, he could see that, but the people waiting for their shot at the darts game clapped. “Your turn, Red. Five out of five, can’t beat me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

For appearances’ sake, Frank told him where to aim – a bit more left, aim a few inches down… he may have lied a few times, but that asshole still managed to burst six balloons. _Six_. With five darts. Because he’d waited for one to bump into another and he’d thrown the dart right where they met and Frank wasn’t, at all, annoyed.

“How did you know where to aim, man? Did you know he was lying about where to aim?” a guy asked. Frank had seen him a couple times on the ranch; he’d come to deliver vet supplies for the cattle.

“I’m telling you, Fred,” his… wife? Said, “it’s like how I always know when you’re trying to bullshit me.”

“I never try to bullshit you.”

The woman laughed and winked at Frank as she took her darts from the girl. “So, what are you and the boyfriend getting?”

Red grinned up at him. “Yeah, what are the prizes?”

“For five balloons, you can get a coupon for a tub of popcorn, or…”

“We got eleven, lady.”

“But it’s per person.”

“Aw, come on! They’re like a unit,” Fred’s wife said.

The girl popped her gum and sighed. “Fine. Then, a small teddy bear, or a little bobble-head thing for your car.”

“There’s one that looks like… is that Dolly Parton? And one that looks like a little devil. Oh, and that one’s an alien, like the little gray ones in the X-Files!”

“We have to get the devil one, Frank.”

“Absolutely not. Why would you be the one to choose, anyway?”

“Well, I won. Again. I got six, you got five.”

Fred’s wife was eyeing them like she thought they were _cute_ or something, and Red’s arm was brushing against him because he hadn’t stepped away from Frank after throwing his darts and it probably looked like they were a _couple_ and Frank just knew he wouldn't get the last word on this. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “We’ll get the devil bobble-head.”

Frank was definitely in need of a beer, now. The afternoon promised to be long.

They had that beer, then had a shot at a weighing game, threw balls in buckets, tried to fish tokens out of a tank filled with opaque water, and Red was of course forbidden from trying the blindfolded race (but he cheered Frank on). At the archery range, Red won a little stuffed lamb that looked too much like Lisa’s favorite when she was small, and Frank’s throat tightened when Murdock held it out to him.

“Look what I got us, Frank,” he said.

“Yeah.” He wished Red couldn't hear how his voice stuck. “I could – I could eat.”

“Frank?”

“I’m hungry.”

“What’s wrong?” He put the toy back in the bag and took Frank’s arm.

“Nothing.” He could tell Murdock didn’t believe him, though. “Let’s go get some dogs, yeah?”

“Sure.”

They got the dogs and sat side by side on a log to eat them; Red’s thigh was touching his own and Frank wondered if he realized he was doing it. If it was on purpose, or if it was a blind thing, if he did it to know where Frank was. Not that he needed to, but why else would he sit so close? Or maybe, in true Murdock fashion, he did it to tease him, like his stupid massage thing. Not that Frank cared if people thought they were a… thing; it didn’t bother him. Let them believe what they wanted; they’d leave soon enough anyway. He didn’t give a flying fuck about them.

“When I was 3 or 4, maybe, my father gave me a dog. I mean a stuffed one, like that lamb. The story goes that I’d refused any sort of stuffed animal before that and the only thing I would sleep with was one of my dad’s gloves. A boxing glove, you know? It must have been as big as I was. He’d left one near me once and I’d latched on it, he said, but they were his lucky pair and he needed them.”

“Get to the point, Red.”

“No point; I just loved that dog. Turned out he’d carried it in his gym bag for a few days before giving it to me, and that had been the key. Funny, huh?”

“Hilarious.”

Murdock bunched up the paper and foil the dog had come in. “So, your kids. Did they have favorite toys? You never talk about them.”

Frank was going to kill him. “They’re dead.”

“Tell me about your family, Frank.”

“Why? Playing shrink again? What do you want, Red?” He’d raised his voice; he could see a few heads turning.

“I just… I don’t know. Father Lantom used to say, life’s a tapestry. He said we can only see the messy side with the threads every which way, but really if you could see the other side, there would be a beautiful picture. God’s design.”

“Priest talk.”

“Yeah.” Red picked up his bottle of beer and turned it in his hands. “Sometimes it gives me comfort, sometimes it makes me angry. That there’s a reason our lives are what they are, that some people go through so much – is there no other way to get that beautiful picture? Is it even worth it? I can’t make up my mind about it.”

“Then don’t. He’s a priest; they say weird shit like that all the time. It’s all smoke so we think they’re deep and wise, but it’s just bull.”

“Yeah, maybe. He’s dead, now; I miss him. You’d have liked him, I think. He liked coffee, too. And he didn’t put up with my shit.”

Well, Red definitely needed people to call him out on his crap. Shame there was one less of them, then. Frank finished his own dog and took his and Red’s trash to the garbage can. “How did that priest set on a visual metaphor as a good idea for a blind guy, anyway?”

Red huffed a little laugh. “Took you that long to think about that?” He drained his beer. “Lantom knew I hadn’t been born blind, so he must have figured I’d get it.”

“Uh.” Frank checked his watch; there were more and more people milling around. “Show’s in 30 minutes.”

“Isn’t there a charity booth? I think Carl mentioned one.”

“ _Carl_ did, uh. Yeah, it’s right over there by the entrance,” and he gave Murdock a hand up. “Guess you want to check it out?”

Of course he did.

It turned out Carl’s sister was there, and Red immediately started chatting with her. Frank tuned it out, leaning back against the fence and looking out at the crowd. Carl joined them after a few minutes; his clothes were dusty and he was grinning.

“Hey, guys.”

“Hey.” Frank nodded at him and shifted a bit closer to Red.

“How’s it going, Ana?”

“We got a few hundred bucks already and people donated clothes too, so we’re doing good. And Matt gave us a toy he won, too.”

Frank looked back. “The stuffed lamb?”

“Yes. Did you want to keep it?”

“No. It should go to a kid.”

“Told you he was a big softie, _hermana_.”

“Didn’t need to tell me; they’ve been joined at the hip all afternoon being cute and all.”

Carl laughed. “Yeah, Frank looks mean but he’s smitten.”

What? “I don’t look mean.”

“Eh, maybe it’s just when I’m too close to the boyfriend.”

Red shook his head; he looked almost rueful. “We’re not boyfriends and you know it.”

“Matt, my friend, you’re a decent guy, but also you can be really dumb.”

“You’re not the first one to say that,” Frank said. “Or the last.”

“Hey, does that mean you…”

“So can we go to the bull pen?” Murdock cut in.

“What, you still want to try and ride one?” Frank wouldn't put it past him, just to prove them right about how much of an idiot he could be.

“Maybe not after those beers.”

“I know of one guy you could ride if you tried. You wouldn't even have to go far.”

“Carl…”

“I’m not talking about me, although I’d absolutely volunteer if Mr. Murderface here wasn’t trying to kill me with his eyes.”

“We’ll go get our seats now,” Frank said loudly. He took Murdock’s arm and dragged him away from Carl and his sister, trying to ignore his catcalls and her snickers. “I _will_ murder him if he keeps that shit up.”

“He’s being friendly, that’s all.” Red stayed close even after Frank let go of him.

“He wants in your pants.” And Frank didn’t want to think about Red’s pants.

“What if he did?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t understand, then. He’s just joking; why is it making you so angry?”

“I’m not angry.” Frank found them a bench that was high up enough he’d see all right, but close enough Red could… smell or hear or whatever it was he did to follow the action.

“Look, I know you’re not homophobic, but this is getting ridiculous. What’s got you so pissed off about this? Is it because you got, uh, you know, when I, um…?” He waved a hand over his crotch, like a dork. Frank bit back a smile.

“I thought you were better than that with words, counselor.”

“ _Frank_.”

“What’s it to you, anyway? I’m everything you hate, everything you fight against. Hell, first time we met I shot you in the head, and yet you keep coming back.”

“You haven’t shot me in a while.”

“Think you’re funny?”

“I just – trust you. You’re _there_.”

That was no fucking answer, but then a guy came in the middle of the ring with a mic and started speaking, so Frank tried to put Red out of his mind and to focus on the show.

It started with riders bearing flags, then some acrobatic shit on horses; some of the riders were really good, and the crowd went wild. Carl and Ana joined them after the lasso demonstration with a pack of beers; Red squeezed a bit closer to Frank so they’d all have space to sit on the bench, and Frank, well. He couldn't say he hated it, even if Carl winked at him when he saw; then again they were all four of them sitting pretty tight and Red and Carl… but it didn’t matter. Carl could say whatever he wanted, and Red could tease Frank as much as it pleased him; nothing would ever happen.

Frank knew himself well enough; he knew he wasn’t as indifferent as he’d like to be to Murdock but he knew his own faults, too. (And Murdock’s; the man was a menace.) Frank’s life… well, he didn’t really have a life; he had a goal, and he’d pursue it until it got the better of him. It would, one day; one of the assholes he went after would get a lucky shot in, and that would be the end of the Punisher. The end of Frank Castle, the guy that a bullet in the head couldn’t take down. That bullet didn’t stop him, no, but it changed him; it changed him into the sort of guy the likes of Murdock, soft-hearted altar boy Matt Murdock, could never accept. He just hadn’t realized it yet.

Maria, she’d known who he was, yeah; and back then Frank had been able to be a soldier, a killer, but also a husband, a father. Now, the only reason he got up in the mornings was death. Not his family, not his unit: death. David had sent him more intel about the cell he’d been going after when that damn bull sent them into the ditch; he’d go and get them soon enough. Ranch work and training had kept him sharp and strong; he was ready. He could take them on his own, obliterate them as they deserved.

And Red… Frank looked down at him, his flushed cheeks and his head tilted in Carl’s direction as he listened to his new bestie describe the action down in the ring. Yeah, Frank should have thought of that. Except there already was an announcer and Red could probably fill in a lot with his senses, sharp as they were. He didn’t need Frank.

The roping contest got to the end and there was a break before they got to the next parts; Carl patted Red’s thigh and stood up. “Bronc riding’s next so I gotta get back to the horses now; see you later, yeah? Told the bull guys to watch out for any lawyers coming in with a white cane, so don’t you dare try to sneak past them.”

“Aw, as if I would!”

Carl laughed and held out his hand to Frank. “Later, guys. Or not, who knows?” He winked so hard Frank was sure Red had to have heard it.

“Yeah, you go shovel horse shit, we’ll stay here and drink those beers.”

“My brother does love shoveling horse shit, actually,” Ana said when Carl was gone. “Always in the barn or in the saddle, unless there's a pretty boy around that’s caught his eye.”

Frank grunted. A pretty boy had definitely caught his eye, yeah.

“But he’s not the kind to settle down, you know? His life is here, and he’s not really looking for a committed relationship or anything like that.” Red’s face was blank, and she sighed. “What I mean is… ah, fuck it. Just get your shit together, all right?”

“Strong words, lady.” Frank hadn’t expected her to snap like that.

“Yeah, well, your pussyfooting around’s making him reconsider, and I don’t want him to fall and then have his heart broken when you leave.” She turned and waved at someone. “Look, I’m off to join my cousin over there. Keep the beer, maybe it’ll help!” She kissed Red’s cheek and dumped the half-empty pack of beer in Frank’s lap before striding away, laughing at Murdock’s wide, surprised eyes and Frank’s gaping.

 _The gall on her_ , he thought. But he liked her; she spoke plain and direct. He could respect that.

“I’m sorry; they’re really getting on your nerves, aren’t they?”

“Nah.” Frank put the beers down between his feet. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

Frank let Murdock finish the pack; Frank himself would be driving them back to the ranch later tonight then leave early to do what he was really here for: getting rid of the Brotherhood. Nothing else mattered. Red didn’t need him anymore; he’d recovered his strength now and he could get anyone on the ranch to drive him to a city somewhere to get on a plane or a train to New York. They all loved him, and now that he was registered to practice in Ohio he’d suddenly acquired a bunch of new clients. He’d be back, defend them in court, save them… do what he loved. He was a goddamn hero, even without his ridiculous getup.

The bull riding part of the event finally started and Red was having the time of his life; he was bending forward and grinning and forgetting all about the beer dangling between his knees. Frank took it from his lax fingers and set it on the floor, and watched Red’s excitement. He was like a kid, cheering with the crowd and clapping and, also, leaning against Frank. Turning his face to him, grinning up at him.

Shit. Frank was fucked, wasn’t he? Yeah, he was.

Red was definitely tipsy; he tipped forward before catching himself with his cane when they stood up after the show was over.

“Don’t pass out on me, Murdock.”

“Not gonna.”

“Right. And don’t puke in my truck.”

“Aw, Frank, I’m not _that_ drunk!”

Probably not, but he wasn’t that sober either. The country band was starting their set on the stage and the crowd had grown rowdier and more full of beer; Red winced at a particularly loud screeching in the speakers and Frank led them a bit faster to the parking lot. The drive back was quick enough and soon they were back in the bungalow, Red changing into his ratty old sweatpants that he liked lounging in while Frank looked at what was still in the fridge. Was he hungry? He figured with a full belly on top of all the beer he’d had, Murdock would soon be asleep and Frank could make sure the truck was ready for the next morning, when he’d leave the ranch.

“Frank?”

He closed the fridge door and stared. Red’s shapeless hoodie was hanging open over his bare chest; he looked artless and a bit rumpled. Endearing. “Yeah?”

“I, uh…” He came a bit closer; his feet were bare. Shit, Frank’s resolve wasn’t as strong as he’d thought it was. “Please?”

“Please what, Red?”

“I know you… feel things, there,” he said, putting one hand flat on Frank's chest, right under the wedding ring with his and Maria’s names. “I hear it. I hear you.”

Frank took Red’s hand in his own; he’d wanted to push it away but he found he couldn’t. “And? What do you want, then?”

“Same thing you do.” Fuck, his smile was so open.

“Yeah? You think you know what I want?”

Red hummed; his eyes fluttered and he just – his lips were very soft. Tasted a little like beer still, and very much like a bad idea, and Frank was self-aware enough Red wasn’t the only one who was good at bad ideas. “Fuck me,” he said.

And, well. Frank had never claimed to be that virtuous anyway.

* * *

Frank was a wall of warmth along his back, his arm a heavy weight on Matt’s waist. They would soon be too hot but for now it was nice, and Matt enjoyed the floaty, detached way his thoughts were drifting around and never stopping. There was no purpose to them; it wasn’t like meditation. It was just the world being out of focus, and not a threat. Frank had his back, after all.

“You got freckles.”

“Hm?”

“There.” The arm lifted and Frank’s hand skimmed his shoulder blades. “Freckles.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. I’m not gonna trust a blind guy’s say so.”

“’s all lies.”

Frank kissed the back of his neck and left the bed; the cool air felt cold on his spine and Matt turned on his back. The bed dipped when Frank came back; he dropped a wet cloth on Matt’s stomach. At least he’d used warm water, Matt thought as he wiped his thighs and belly. Frank had refused to actually fuck him because they didn’t have condoms and lube, and Matt made a note to get some as soon as he could. He had plans. He threw the cloth back at Frank, but Frank saw it coming and from the sound caught it neatly.

“You planning on sleeping on top of the covers?”

“I’m enjoying the mellow, Frank.”

“Yeah, you sure look all blissed out.”

Matt finally wriggled to get inside the bed instead of on it. “Proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Frank grunted in agreement, but didn’t join him.

“Frank?”

There was a pause, and for a moment Matt thought Frank wouldn't; then finally, Frank slid in next to him. He was wearing thick sweatpants and a shirt, the kind Matt had worn when they’d been sleeping in a motel further up north with fucked up heating.

“Cold?” The fabric felt worn and soft against Matt’s naked skin, so he plastered himself against Frank.

“No. You sleep, Red, yeah?”

“Hm.”

The combination of beer, sex, and the excitement of the day got the better of him and for once, he did as Frank said pretty quickly.

A burst of cold air woke him up. Matt shivered and rolled into the other side of the bed where – it was empty. Frank must have gotten up to…

No. The cold air had been from outside; Matt heard the truck door slam shut and the engine start.

By the time he realized what had just happened, it was too late. Frank had left the ranch.

Of course, he tried to call Frank, leave him voicemails. He thought about asking Karen to try and find him; she was good at that, but… no. If Frank had wanted to leave, then Matt would respect his choice. He’d give him a few days but if he wasn’t back in a week, then he’d ask someone from the ranch to get him into a bus or a train. Jen often went to Dayton; he could hitch a ride with her and find his way from there. He’d get back to New York, back to his life. He was fine now; he hadn’t felt dizzy in weeks and he was back in shape. He could be Daredevil again by night, defend his clients by day, just… live his life. He didn’t need Frank.

“I told you, he went to see a buddy of his from the Marines,” he repeated to Carl when he asked about it again on one of their coffee chats. “Learned he was nearby, so he decided to pay him a visit.”

“And you didn’t go with him?”

“Why would I? I never knew the guy, and I want to work on building your cases here.”

“Uh huh.” Carl didn't buy it. No one on the ranch, Matt suspected, bought it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“But?”

“But nothing.” Carl sighed. “So, Jen said you told her you’d be leaving in a week or thereabouts, right?”

“Yeah, think so. I’ve got my life to get back to.”

“No horses in the big city. Pretty sure it stinks, too.”

“Well, it doesn’t stink of horse shit, so there’s that.”

“I’m sure a hotshot lawyer like you lives in a fancy apartment up one of them glass towers, with the nice view.”

Matt laughed. “I live in a shitty apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and there’s a giant neon billboard right in front of my window; I’m told the view is pretty appalling but you know, the rent’s cheap.”

“For New York.”

“I’ve never lived anywhere else. Can’t imagine leaving it; it’s home, like here for you.”

“Yeah, I get it. Well, at least there is plenty of work around for you, right? What with all the crime they talk about on TV, and those vigilantes that don’t seem much better if you ask me.”

“They’re doing what they can to help.”

“Whoa, yeah, sure, I guess; I don’t know what life’s like over there. Hey, you know some of them? I heard about that guy; bullets bounce off of him. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah. Unless you’re standing next to him, of course.”

“Oh yeah, hadn’t thought of that! Really, that’s all crazy shit; I couldn’t survive there. Like, there’s this guy that sticks to the wall, too?”

“Spiderman?”

“Right, him! I hate spiders, Matt. Hate ‘em.”

“Heard he’s sweet, though.”

“Well, he sure looks more likely to stick around than some other people I won’t mention.”

Matt didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “We’re both adults.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Carl put his hands flat on the table and leaned forward; Matt could feel the table tilt slightly under his own elbows. “Look, I don’t know what it is exactly you’re both hiding, but you deserve better than a guy who runs away when it gets too much, you know?”

“Hiding – we’re not hiding anything.”

“Right. Two guys from the big city, driving through Ohio of all places, staying here for weeks as if you have nothing better to do? Look, I don’t know how or why you ended up here and frankly, I don’t care; you’ve done good here and that’s all that matters to me. But I saw what’s in that truck when we towed it back here, Matt; who drives around with that much weaponry? And I won’t believe you don’t know what his deal is. We’re not city folks, but we’re not dumb either.”

“I never thought you were. But what Frank does…”

“You know, I looked you up on the internet. Looks like you’re famous, over there.”

“Um…”

“Your name came up into some big cases; it was really you there, going after big companies and mob bosses. And also that ex-Marine guy that went on a murder spree?”

“Carl…”

“Castle, he was called, right? You know what a castle is, in Italian?”

“I don’t speak Italian.”

“The Punisher, they called him. What happened to him was pretty messed up, but he really went full-on psycho.”

“I’m a defense attorney; I defend people in court. That’s what I do.”

“I almost didn’t recognize him. He doesn't have a beard in those press articles. I have no idea why you came here together and I’m not sure I want to know, and I guess I shouldn't tell you to be careful because you know better than I do what he’s all about. But… _are you insane?_ ”

Matt couldn't help a little huff of laughter. “You’re not the first one to ask me that question.”

“That is not reassuring; you know that, right?”

“It’s been pointed out to me, yes.”

Carl leaned back in his chair. “That’s real fucked up. All of this… Shit, and I kept trying to make him jealous! I swear, if looks could kill I’d have been done for twenty times over. Christ, if I’d known then…”

“He wouldn’t hurt you.”

“He looked like he really wanted to, lemme tell you. No one, absolutely no one wants the _Punisher_ to look at them like that. And now I guess he’s not gone to see a friend, right? He’s gone to, I don’t know, murder people. And you’re cool with it.”

“I don’t know what he’s doing; he didn’t share. He’s not real good at that. And no, I’m not… _cool with it._ But Frank is Frank, he won’t change just because I want him to.”

“You _want_ him to change?”

Matt thought for a moment. “I want him to want happiness for himself, to believe it's in reach and go for it. I’m a Catholic; I believe in redemption and second chances, third, fourth… but you have to want it. You have to work for it.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“I have faith.”

“Does he?” Carl asked before standing up and putting on his hat.

Matt shrugged. What could he answer? Carl squeezed his shoulder before leaving, and his worry still permeated the atmosphere long minutes after his departure.

Frank would say he didn’t want to change, that he was fine with things as they were. He’d say what he did was actually useful, that when he got someone they stayed down for good. Because that was what they deserved. Frank saw himself as judge, jury, and executioner, and sometimes Matt found it hard to disagree with him when he felt God was too far away, too indifferent to people's suffering. But Matt didn’t only believe in God; he believed in people, too. In Frank. And he had faith enough for the both of them: faith in and faith for Frank. Now, it was only up to Frank to come back, and Matt didn’t want to imagine that he wouldn't. The idea hurt too much.

The sound of a familiar engine pulled Matt out of the file he’d been trying to finish before leaving tomorrow; he took the earbud out and listened more carefully. Yes, it was him. It was Frank. He shut the laptop down and stood up; he could almost taste the adrenaline that suddenly flooded his system. He took a deep breath, tugged his shirt down, and opened the door.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re back.” _Real smooth, Murdock._

“Yeah. You look good.”

“I wouldn't know.”

They stood there, a few feet apart; Matt routinely jumped over bigger gaps between buildings, but now it felt like that space was as large, empty, and echoing as Grand Central. Someone shouted “Frank’s back!” and Carl’s voice, disbelieving, replied from further away still: “Holy shit, really?” Matt tuned them out. Frank was right here, so close; there was a faint smell of blood and antiseptic on him, and the gunpowder that always clung to him.

“I told them you’d gone to see a friend from the Marines.”

“There were Marines,” Frank said. “Where I was.”

Matt turned around and headed back inside; he didn’t want anyone watching or listening. After a beat, Frank followed, and Matt breathed a little easier. The door closed, but Frank didn’t come any closer.

“So, where did you go?”

Frank threw something, a box, on the table. “I bought condoms.”

“You don’t doubt yourself, do you?”

“You can use them with…”

“You’re an asshole, Frank.”

“Yeah.”

“So. Where?”

“That last Brotherhood cell.”

“Why didn’t you take me with you?”

“It’s not your fight, Red.”

“It was before.”

“You shouldn’t – I shouldn’t drag you down with me.”

“I can make my own choices.”

“Yeah, we both know you’re real good at those.”

Matt almost punched him. Almost. But he didn’t, and he tried to take pride in that. Anger and violence wouldn’t help, even if it would feel so, so satisfying. Instead, he took a chair and set it down forcefully in front of him. “Take off your shirt and sit. Backward.”

“What…”

“You’re bleeding, somewhere on your… back, I think.” He stomped to the bathroom and took the first aid kit Frank had left, because of course he hadn’t taken it with him. He’d fucked off to yet another fight without… Matt sighed. The smell of blood was stronger when he got back to the kitchenette; Frank had done as he’d been told. For once. Matt washed his hands in the sink, then ran his fingers on skin until he found the gash under Frank’s shoulder blade. The skin was a bit sticky around it, as if Frank had taped something over the wound and removed it along with his clothes.

“Needs stitches.”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t take the kit with you.” Not like he could have stitched his own back, but still.

“I bought some Neosporin.”

Frank was an idiot, and so was Matt to still care. He opened a suture kit and tried not to think of his dad after a boxing match, of how even when he’d come back home bloody and beaten Matt had still felt safe with him. Frank didn’t flinch when Matt pierced his skin, although he caught his breath a few times. “You killed them?”

“You know it’s what I do.”

Tie a knot, start again. “It’s what you choose to do. Choice, Frank.”

“That why you’re still here? Choosing to stay here, live as a ranch’s in-house lawyer?”

“I was leaving tomorrow.”

“Not anymore?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m not telling anyone what to do.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s not like you can lead by example.” He checked the stitches were neat and tight, then he taped some gauze over it. “There.” Better than an old shirt and some tape.

“Red, I…”

“What?”

Frank almost elbowed Matt in the gut when he stood up and whirled around. “Why? Why are you so fixated on me, anyway? You know what I am; you know what I do! First time we met I tried to kill you, remember that? I shot at you! And yet you’re…”

“You shot at my helmet. If you’d wanted to kill me, you’d have shot somewhere else.”

“Maybe I missed.”

“We both know you didn’t.”

“Goddammit, I am everything you hate! I’m a killer, and proud of it! Why can’t you – there’s good people around you, Red. Why _me_? I’m not good people.”

“Who says so? Who’s judging you?”

“I don’t believe in your God.”

“I know; you keep saying it. Who’s judging you, Frank?”

“This shit’s important to you. The no killing thing, your redemption shtick… But it’s not for me, do you understand? It’s not what I am. Just – stop trusting me, or believing in me, or thinking whatever it is you think of me. I’m not that guy, you hear me?”

“What I’m hearing is a lot of bullshit.” Matt’s fists itched; he wanted to hit Frank, hurt him; he wanted to hammer it into him that he had a choice. That he could choose. That as long as he was alive, he could choose. He put his palm over Frank’s heart, instead. It beat strong, a bit faster than usual, pumping Frank’s warm blood steady and sure.

“Red… That bullet in my skull, it killed me, you understand? It killed the good in me, if there ever was any. I’m not… whole, not anymore.” But he didn’t move away.

“But you came back,” Matt said. Frank left, and he came back; that mattered.

“You’re pissed at me.”

“You knew I’d be.”

“I don’t want forgiveness; I’m not like you.”

“I told you, Frank; I’m shit at forgiving. We can’t change the past, but God gave us free will. What we can do is choose for ourselves.”

“I…”

“You didn’t choose for me when they opened up my skull.”

“Someone had to make that decision for you.”

“Yeah, I realize that now. But you listened when they didn’t. I just needed someone to hear me, and you were there.”

“You were off your gourd.”

“You knew where to find me, and you – you saved me, and you kept me sane.”

“No, I…”

“You _did_ , Frank.”

“I’m no one’s savior.”

“I’m not asking you to be.”

“Then what…”

Matt didn’t let him finish. He went from Frank’s sternum up to his collarbone, to the ring resting there. He took a moment to feel it, feel the names etched inside; he hoped Frank would tell him more about his wife, one day. Then Matt followed the thin metal chain up to Frank’s neck, found the beard; he buried his other hand in Frank’s hair at the back of his skull and he had him. He _had_ him, past and all. He wanted him, past and all.

“Shit, Red,” Frank mumbled against Matt’s lips.

Matt smiled.

“I didn’t kill them all,” Frank said once they’d cooled down a bit.

“Hm?”

“The guys I hit. I left some alive. They’ll tell whoever remains that I’ll be going after them if they build up the Brotherhood again.”

 _Good_ , Matt thought. He tugged on the longish hair on Frank’s head. “Are you keeping that, then?”

“I’m shaving before we leave here tomorrow.”

“Then those guys won’t recognize you.”

“They’ll recognize the skull.”

Ah, yes. Matt always forgot about it; to him it was the smell of spray paint and the feel of Kevlar, not a particular design. “Keep it. I like it.”

“No.”

Matt hid his grin in Frank’s shoulder.

In the end, Frank didn’t shave until their summer drive back to Ohio.

“So Carl remembers who I really am,” he said. “In case he gets ideas about your ass again.”

That Frank felt the need for a good preemptive scare almost made up for his suddenly smooth cheeks; but really, Frank _had_ Matt, too.

**Author's Note:**

> In the previous fic, Matt starts to act strangely, and has (mainly visual) hallucinations; he thinks God is talking to him.  
> The situation worsens and the only person he'll talk to is Frank, who at least listens.  
> Frank finally gets Matt to agree to a hospital check when things took a really bad turn. Foggy signs an unconscious Matt for surgery when they discover he's got a (non cancerous) tumour that is putting pressure on his brain and must be removed.  
> Matt is Not Happy about it and feels disconnected from God.  
> The rest should be clear from this fic.


End file.
